


Assassin

by roamingbadger



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Assassin AU kind of, F/M, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine 2016, Rivals to Lovers, academy au, but not in the way you think, hacker!Daisy, trapped in an enclosed space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/pseuds/roamingbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five days. Hundreds of students. One winner. For some, Assassin Week at the Shield Academy is the most important stretch of time in their school career. For Jemma Simmons, it's a distraction from exam revision and her mission to get top marks. But when her rival Leo Fitz decides to enter the fray, her competitive spirit takes over. May the best student win. A Shield Academy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Sunday - Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fitzsimmonsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzsimmonsy/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful fitzsimmonsy as part of the Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine exchange. I received the prompt "Fitz and Simmons are trapped in an enclosed space" . . . so . . . spoiler alert for Part 2. ;)
> 
> I had sooo much fun writing this fic and, as usual, taking a few liberties with the prompt. Things got slightly out of hand, which is why this has been split into two parts, but I honestly enjoyed every second. Thank you, fitzsimmonsy, for not only giving me a great prompt but for doing SO MUCH hard work for this fandom and for being the lovely person that you are. I really hope you enjoy your gift! Happy Valentine's Day!

* * *

 

**Sunday**

            Jemma tapped her identity card against the electronic reader without looking up from her lab notes, buzzing her way into Student Laboratory #3A. Still reading, she wove between tables as the secure lab doors slid shut behind her. It wasn’t until she reached the workstation at the back left—her favorite—that she glanced up.

            “Oh! I’m sorry, I . . . I didn’t realize this lab was occupied.”

            Leo Fitz stared back at her, the fluorescent lights above him accenting his bright blue eyes. As usual, his reply came slowly, allowing Jemma to reach her maximum mortification before he said, “Yeah. Sunday afternoon. I didn’t expect to see anyone else.”

            “It’s fine,” Jemma said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I’ll just work over here.” She set her notes down at the workstation across the aisle from his.

            Of course. _Of course_. The only other student who would be spending his Sunday in the labs was her arch nemesis. The Boy Who Hated Her. Naturally, to exacerbate the awkwardness, he had chosen her favorite seat, and she hadn’t noticed, so now she looked like an idiot.

            Jemma built an impromptu wall of notes between them, glancing over it once or twice to see what he was working on. On the third glance, he was already staring across at her desk, so they both shifted abruptly away from each other, eyes dropping to the floor. Jemma didn’t risk checking again.

            She found it difficult to concentrate on her work—a sensation with which she did _not_ have a lot of prior experience. Each shifting sound of movement from Fitz’s desk tore her attention away from her notes on chemical compounds. She switched to something easy—her notes from their most recent xenobiology lecture—but even those failed to hold her attention.

            She was idly doodling molecular structures in the margins of her notebook when she heard a tap on the lab doors.

            Both she and Fitz glanced up at the same time. It was impossible to miss the source of the sound, mostly because said source was waving with one arm and tapping the glass with the dark object she held in the other. Hang on—was that—

            “Daisy!” Jemma jumped up from her desk and hurried to the lab doors, tapping them open from the inside with her identity card. “Is that—a _gun_?”

            “Don’t worry, it’s a fake.” Daisy brushed passed Jemma with an easy smile, twirling the gun around her trigger finger. “Commies have field exercises tomorrow.”

            Jemma flinched. A glance over her shoulder at Fitz revealed that he was watching them with faintly drawn brows. _Great_. Gritting her teeth, she attempted to block Daisy from further entrance into the lab, but her friend was having none of it. She went right back to Jemma’s workstation, sat on the desktop, and began swinging her legs.

            “Doesn’t explain why you have it today,” Jemma said, moving to block Daisy from Fitz’s view. She modulated her voice to a sharp murmur, hoping her friend would get the hint. “Or how you got it in this building. In fact, you’re not even supposed to be on this _floor_ , not to mention—”

            “The labs. I know, I know.” Hint was decidedly un-gotten. Daisy spoke at full volume, now spinning the gun atop the desk. “This building is like a prison,” she went on. “A really clean, glass-filled, biometric-locked, maximum-security—”           

            “Exactly,” said Jemma in a whisper. “And they take breaking and entering very seriously around here.”

            Daisy shrugged, raising palms to the ceiling. “Commie.”

            Jemma rolled her eyes, giving up and moving around the desk to reclaim her seat. Daisy twisted to face her, crossing her legs on the desktop now. “You know I hate it when you use that word,” Jemma said, glaring at Daisy’s boots.

            Daisy did pick up on _that_ hint, jumping off the desk with an apologetic look. She even leaned over and brushed some crumbs of dirt from Jemma’s notebook. “Okay. Fair enough. It’s just too tempting when you’re a Communications student at the Big Scary Russian-fighting Shield Academy—”

            Jemma held up a hand to stave off this familiar argument. “Was there something you needed?”

            Daisy blinked. Her gaze dropped to the desk, trailing over to the impromptu wall of notes before sliding to where Fitz sat across the aisle. A second passed and she glanced back to Jemma, who was definitely _not_ going to flinch away like a guilty person, thank-you-very-much. Daisy leaned forward. “Am I . . . interrupting something?”

            In her defense, that time she _was_ trying to speak in a whisper. Unsuccessfully, but still.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jemma said, her voice sharp. She indicated her open notebook with a raise of her brows. “I’m _working_.”

            Daisy half-smiled at the notebook, which was covered in doodles of Carbon and Hydrogen atoms and exactly one line of actual work. “Clearly.”

            Jemma slammed the notebook shut. “Are you quite finished?”

            Mercifully, Daisy relented, giving Jemma A Look but letting the subject pass. “Actually, I _am_ here for a reason. It’s Assassin Week, and signups are after dinner, so . . .” She let her words trail off as if Jemma could discern their implied meaning without help.

            “Assassin what now?”

            “Assassin Week.” Daisy turned incredulous. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about it? I mean, I knew you were sheltered, but I thought even you—”

            Something clicked in Jemma’s mind—a memory from the bulletin board outside her dormitory. “Wait—you mean that silly campus game?”

            “Campus game? _Campus game!_ Jemma.” Daisy planted her arms on the desk and leaned over it with sudden, agitated energy. “This is serious. It’s an Academy tradition. It’s about honor—”

            “It’s also two weeks before exams,” Jemma pointed out. “If you want to waste your revision period playing hide and seek, be my guest.”

            “Hide and seek?” Daisy lifted her fingers from the desk as if tempted to wring them in her hair. “This is so much more than that. The winner gets a summer internship at an actual Shield facility!”

            Jemma’s attention refocused after that last bit. “What?”

            Daisy nodded feverishly. “Yes. All three colleges compete against each other, and the winning student gets to choose the Shield facility where they’ll intern. Within reason, of course. The Triskelion, the Hub, the Playground—”

            Jemma narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

            “I’m telling you, Jemma, this is a big deal.”

            Jemma tapped her fingers on her notebook cover, unable to resist indulging in a momentary daydream. Any Shield facility of her choosing, all summer long? The lab access alone was enough to give her goosebumps. And she’d have the chance to prove herself field worthy, not to mention make contacts for her post-graduation plans.

            Assuming she could maintain top marks after a week of gameplay. And also assuming she could win.

            Jemma shook herself from her trance. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, more to herself than to Daisy. “Exams are in two weeks. I need to study.”

            “But—”

            “I’ll see you at dinner, Daisy.”

            Daisy glared, but when Jemma opened her notebook and bent over it, pretending to work, she gave in. Jemma didn’t glance up as Daisy collected the gun, shoved it in her waistband, and prepared to leave.

            “Jemma?”

            Jemma tried for a look of concentration and mild irritation and, again, _not guilt_. “Yes?”

            “Could you, um, scan me out of here?”

            Jemma rolled her eyes, but stood up and crossed the room to help. “Good luck with the main exit,” she said as the lab doors slid open.

            Daisy half-smiled in reply. “I’ll find a way.”

* * *

            The next few hours did nothing to improve Jemma’s mood. By the time she appeared in the dining hall, she was tired, starving, and frustrated, because she had done very little actual work. Fitz’s looming—and apparently productive—presence had not helped.

            She spotted him at one of the food stations and resolved not to look in his direction again. Grabbing a tray, she hurried through the main food line—it was curry night—and swiped her identity card to pay the meal credits on her way into the dining area. Daisy caught her attention immediately, as well as everyone else’s, by waving both arms in the air.

            Jemma could not help but smile as she took the empty seat across from her friend, but she sobered when she remembered how their earlier conversation had ended. Fortunately, Daisy was not one to hold a grudge. She struck up a conversation about Monday’s field exercises and maintained a steady flow of words as Jemma dug into her curry and rice.

            “—not even supposed to have classes this week. It’s ridiculous. And guess what? Agent _May_ is our instructor.” Daisy spoke around a mouthful of curry. “That woman terrifies me. I’ll probably pee my—”

            Just then, Jemma caught a snatch of words from behind Daisy, a murmured conversation between two students from Operations.

            “—if you get me? We’d have an alliance, right?”

            A sigh. “I told you, Hunter, that’s not how it works. If I get you, I’m killing you.”

            “Damn. Harsh,” said Hunter in response. “What happened to spousal privileges?” He raised his left hand and waggled his ring finger, where the light caught a thin silver band.

            His companion, a blonde wearing an unfazed smile, merely shrugged. “There are no marriages in the trenches.”

            Of course. Assassin Week. Now that she looked away from her curry for more than ten seconds, Jemma noticed scores of bent heads and whispered conversations around the dining hall. There were more empty seats than usual for a Sunday night, too.

            Clearly, Daisy hadn’t been lying. This game was a big deal.

            “Hello? Earth to Jemma?” Daisy’s waving hand finally caught Jemma’s attention. “You okay?”

            Jemma cleared her throat. “Oh. Yeah. Fine. Just . . . tired.”

            “Me too.” At Jemma’s surprised look, Daisy amended her sentence. “Okay, well, not technically tired. But I’ll need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”    

            “Agent May?”

            Daisy winced. “Yeah. I was thinking Assassin. But . . . her, too.”

            Jemma managed a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like you’re going to have a rough week.”

* * *

            A vague sense of unease followed Jemma out of the dining hall and across campus to the Science Dormitories. Though it was still early—the late-spring sun was barely sinking past the horizon—Jemma found herself in a sea of other students, all talking excitedly about the upcoming week.

            “Operations have the most wins,” said a student in front of her. “Naturally.”

            “But it’s as much about brains as it is about brawn,” said his companion, matter-of-fact.

            “Where would you go?”

            “If I win? Oh, the Sandbox, obviously. They have stuff we’ve never even _heard_ of—”

            Jemma blocked the rest out, pushing ahead to the front of the crowd and scanning herself into the dorms with her identity card. She held the door open for the person behind her, barely noticing him until he said “Thanks” in a Scottish accent.

            It was Fitz.

            Jemma stared at him as the crowd pushed them through the doorway, carrying them down the hall. She wondered if he’d overheard the same conversation that she had. Probably not, she realized a second later, as he must’ve already been at the front of the group.

            She only _felt like_ he went everywhere she did.

            They had reached the end of the hall by the time Jemma realized she was staring. She glanced away and found a split in the group: almost everyone was piling into the common room at her right, but a few lone stragglers were taking the stairs straight ahead to their rooms on the upper levels. And for some reason, she hesitated.

            It was just a silly game, she thought to herself. She didn’t have time to spend the first week of revision playing Natasha Romanoff all over campus. And so what if someone else got to pick the Shield facility of their dreams for a summer internship? She was at the top of her class, and enough studying could keep it that way.

            Jemma took a step toward the stairs. As she moved, however, something to her right caught her eye: Fitz, turning his back. Stepping into the flow of people.

            Walking into the common room.

            Without thinking, without hesitating, Jemma followed him into the crowd.

* * *

            A hush fell over the now-stuffed room as Dr. Weaver took the floor. She surveyed her students with an enigmatic smile.

            “Assassin Week,” she said. She spoke at a normal volume, the heavy silence of baited breath all the amplification she needed to be heard. “Some consider it the most trying week of their Academy careers. By this time tomorrow, over half of you will be eliminated. By Thursday evening, a handful of students will remain. On Friday at 11:59 PM, we’ll have our winner, or none at all.”

            A chorus of surprised whispers followed this announcement, snuffed out like matches by Weaver’s raised hands. “That’s right,” she said, her smile playing over her lips. “Either there is one remaining victor at the end of the week, or no prize will be awarded.” She let this sink in before continuing.

            “The rules are relatively simple.” She held up a clothespin. “Participants will wear this somewhere on their person at all times. It must be visible to the naked eye and accessible—no layers worn over it, no permanent attachments to your clothing. If this is removed, you’re dead. You pass on your target to the assassin who eliminated you, and the game continues.

            “Classrooms, libraries, and labs are neutral zones, as are any spaces where a class or training exercise is in session. You can’t kill or be killed there. Anywhere else is fair game.” Dr. Weaver crossed her arms, still holding the clothespin between thin fingers. “Break the rules or harm your classmates and you’ll be disqualified. Please review the full list of rules, posted outside, when we’re finished here.” Her eyes jumped from student to student in the crowd. “You are all incredibly smart, gifted people. This game is about testing those gifts. Use your ingenuity and you are sure to succeed.” She squared her shoulders, dropping her arms. “The winner will receive an internship position at the Shield facility of their choice.”

            She was quiet for several long seconds before a dull murmuring grew into a wide, excited roar of applause once everyone realized that Weaver had finished. Jemma barely recognized some of her fellow students by their determined grimaces, their hearty clapping. She shrunk against the wall, wondering why she had come here, until she caught sight of Fitz across the room. He was staring at Dr. Weaver, unmoving, his jaw locked. Jemma lifted her chin.

            She could do this.

            Once the cheering died down, Dr. Weaver lined them up to write down their names on tiny slips of yellow paper. After dropping their names into a bucket, they collected their clothespins. Once all the names had been entered and the clothespins distributed, Dr. Weaver shushed them one last time.

            “You’ll get the name of your first target tomorrow morning,” she said, “at the dining hall. Wear your clothespin, as the game will commence promptly at 8 AM. And . . .” She half-smiled at all of them again, the bucket in her hands. “May the best student win.”

* * *

**Monday**

            Jemma had never seen so many people awake in time for breakfast.

            It would have been comical were her nerves not already on high alert. She wove past a group of Communications students—more of them then she had ever seen in one place before 8 AM—and got in the queue for tea and coffee. She’d never had to wait in a queue for her morning tea before. A smattering of Operations Recruits in front of her, clothespins stuck like a brash challenge on their lapels, looked ready to fight the first person who called them “bleary-eyed.”

            “Boo!”

            Jemma jumped, pulling her left wrist—where her own clothespin was clipped to the inside cuff—protectively to her chest.

            “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. You were looking at Call of Duty over there as if he might eat you.” It was Daisy, rendered almost unrecognizable by the fact that she was smiling before eleven. She must have noticed Jemma’s surprise, because she said, “Yes, it’s really me, and no, I haven’t been possessed by—” She stopped, staring at where Jemma was fiddling with her clothespin. Then her smile grew twice as wide, her eyes lighting up. “You signed up. _You signed up_. I knew it! I knew you would—”

            The Operations Recruit in front of them—aka Call of Duty—half-turned in their direction, irritation flicking across his otherwise stony features. He was handsome, in a dark hair, dark eyes, possibly-dark-soul kind of way, but Jemma didn’t particularly care to test out that last bit before he’d had his morning coffee.

            “How many times must I introduce you to the concept of _whispering?_ ” Jemma hissed at her friend, who grinned back.

            “I knew it,” Daisy repeated, oblivious to any threat from the rest of the line. “I knew you couldn’t pass up some healthy competition.”

            “What is that supposed to mean?”

            Daisy ignored Jemma’s indignation. “So what’s your plan of action? Lie low? Travel in groups? Ooh!” An idea sparked in her eyes. “Maybe we should team up?”

            Jemma observed Daisy without responding. Gleaming eyes: check. Overbright smile: check. Wearing mascara before presumed consumption of caffeine: check. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

            “Nope.” Daisy shook her brown curls, which were clipped into place at her right temple with a slightly worn clothespin. “Halls were too crazy. Someone passed around Red Bulls at four AM and it was all downhill from there.”

            Jemma sighed. Reprimands and regrets would be useless now. The queue inched forward. Call of Duty finally made it to the tower of mugs and chose one, still casting back the odd dirty look. Daisy noticed him at last and returned his glare. “Well, excuse _me_ for existing, Mr. Black Ops,” she muttered under her breath.

            “I suppose we can team up,” Jemma said, hoping the change in subject would avert a crisis. “I’ve done some light research on the most successful methods—”

            “Light research?”

            “Googling,” Jemma clarified. They reached the mug tower and made their selections. “Turns out there’s a website dedicated entirely to the history of the Academy Assassin Weeks. How I missed this before, I honestly don’t know, but—”

            “I told you it was important,” Daisy said, filling her mug with about an inch of coffee and four inches of milk. Jemma watched in horror as she selected four sugar packets, shook them, and tore them open in one smooth motion. “What?”

            “Nothing.” Jemma busied herself with her own tea and splash of milk before following Daisy over to the food queue.

            “So what did you find out?”

            Jemma opened her mouth to explain, but shut it again when someone walked up behind them. She wasn’t sure why, but some tug of form or color drew her to check over her shoulder—just the slightest half-turn of her head, that was all, but he registered in her peripheral vision.

            Fitz. He wore dark jeans and a blue cardigan that made his bright eyes stand out despite their redness. His curls were mussed from sleep, sticking up awkwardly on one side and flattened on the other. Something clipped to his belt loop near his right front pocket caught her attention: his clothespin. No sooner had she noticed it then Jemma whipped her head forward.

            The last thing she needed was for Fitz to catch her checking his crotch.

            “Nevermind,” she whispered to a bewildered Daisy. “I’ll tell you later.”

            They got their food in silence and carried their trays to a table in the back, where they had a good view of the rest of the room. Jemma noticed most of the Operations Recruits doing the same, while the Communications and Science students mixed with each other around the tables in the front. Fitz sat a few seats away from them, head bent to his food.

            “Are you friends with that guy?” Daisy asked, following Jemma’s line of vision.

            “What? No!” Jemma cleared her throat. “No. He hates me.”

            Daisy raised her eyebrows. “Hates you? Are you sure?”

            Jemma stirred some granola into her yogurt. “He never talks to me, even when we’re the only two people in the lab—which is practically every weekend, by the way.” She added some fresh raspberries to her parfait mix. “And if I’m at the top of one subject, you can bet he’s at the top of all the others.”

            “A-ha.” Daisy sat back, crossing her arms. “There it is.”

            “What?” Jemma looked up from mashing the raspberries, perhaps with more violence than she intended. She set down her spoon. “If you’re implying that my personal feelings are influenced by the fact that Fitz is—is—quite capable in the classroom—”

            “Admit it, Jemma. You hate being beaten.”

            Jemma opened her mouth to deny this, but nothing came out. She shut her mouth again, avoiding her friend’s keen gaze. Daisy was right—she _did_ hate being beaten. But she also enjoyed the thrill of discovering a worthy opponent. Knowing that Fitz would take over the top slot if she faltered had pushed her to study harder than she ever had before. He was a true genius, and she enjoyed every step she took trying to keep pace with him. He’d made her first year at the Academy far more exciting than any of her work getting her PhDs. The more he appeared to despise her, the more he tried to pull away into the winning spot, the harder she would fight to keep it.

            And deep down, she was kind of enjoying the fight.

            In attempting to push this feeling aside, something else became staggeringly clear: why else had she walked into the common room last night?

            Because Fitz was going in there, too. And she couldn’t bear to let Fitz win.

            “All right, Assassins.” The amplified voice echoing throughout the dining area saved Jemma from a forced reply. She, Daisy, and hundreds of others lifted their heads to face the front of the room.

            Agent Coulson, acting Head of the Shield Academy, stood on small raised platform holding a wireless microphone. At his feet was a bucket filled with yellow slips of paper. “For this one week, that term applies to all of you.” A few Comms and Science students laughed. Operations were unamused. “Before you draw your targets, let me emphasize that if you hurt your fellow Assassins, not only will you be disqualified from the tournament, but you’ll also face disciplinary action from Agent May.” His normally open and cheerful expression turned stern with remarkable—almost frightening—speed. “And yes, in this case, ‘disciplinary action’ means ‘individual field exercises for weeks.’ Are we clear?” He stared down the room for a moment, and then his cheerful smile returned. “I want good, clean kills, okay?”

            More laughter. He demonstrated a “clean kill” by tugging the clothespin from his own lapel, then waving it in the air. After a while, the quiet descended once more, and Coulson pocketed the clothespin. “All right, I think that just about covers it. On your way out of the dining hall, choose your first target from this bucket. Kill only your own targets. The game begins in T minus 40 minutes.” He jumped down from the platform, but seemed to remember one more thing, raising the microphone again at the last moment. “Oh, yeah, and this is not a neutral zone. Good luck!”

            Chaos ensued. Coulson disappeared from the hall as everyone began eating at various speeds between “quick” and “total, panicked scarfing.” Jemma glanced across at Daisy to find her chugging the milk-sugar-coffee creation.

            “I think I might need one more of these,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I’m going to grab my target on the way. Want me to grab yours?"

            “No, that’s all right.” Jemma couldn’t explain why, but she felt the need to pull this name herself. “Forty minutes is plenty of time, you know.”

            “So you think. But this place is going to be a bloodbath when that time is up. Like, Red Wedding Part Two.”

            “How do you know?” Jemma asked, but Daisy was already halfway to the front of the hall.

            Others were leaping up all around their table, but one person in particular hadn’t moved. Fitz was cutting up his second sausage—Jemma didn’t know how she’d mentally kept tabs on his breakfast, but she preferred not to think about that too much. There was a notebook open on the table beside him, and all his attention seemed focused on it, to the point that he wasn’t even glancing at his food as he brought it to his mouth. Jemma stared, wondering what was in that notebook, until, to her horror, he glanced up.

            He turned a bright shade of red, starting at his cheeks and spreading to his ears and neck. Jemma glanced back to her food, but not before noticing the bite of sausage that fell from Fitz’s fork, hit the notebook, and rolled off into his lap.

            By the time Daisy returned, Jemma hoped she looked completely normal and not embarrassed at all. She sipped the last of her tea, aiming for an expression halfway between anticipation and serenity. “So, who’d you get?”

            Daisy gave her a searching look. “Are you okay?”

            “Fine.” So much for serenity. Jemma nodded at the yellow slip of paper in Daisy’s hands. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”

            Daisy held out the slip of paper. Bold, slightly messy lettering read _Antoine Triplett_. “Heard of him?”

            Jemma shook her head. “He’s definitely not in Science.” She had lowered her voice almost without meaning to. Suddenly the smattering of people at the tables around them pressed at the edges of her vision like a threat. Any one of them could be Antoine, reading over her shoulder. She rubbed at her wrist, sticking a finger between the rough clothespin and her sensitive skin beneath.

            “Bummer,” said Daisy, pocketing the slip of paper. “I guess I’ll have to do this the hard way.” She smiled. “Or should I say the easy yet somewhat unethical way?”

            Jemma’s attention returned sharply to her friend’s face. Daisy wore the type of grin that usually appeared before suggestions of questionable morality, like “let’s climb up to the roof after midnight” or “bet you $10 I could hack my way in.”

            “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” said Daisy, reading the look on Jemma’s face. “Now, are you going to draw or will you be leaving me in suspense?”

            The crowd around the bucket had thinned considerably. Jemma checked the clock at the side of the room: 20 minutes to eight. Perfect. She stood, dusting off imaginary lint from her jeans and picking up her breakfast tray. “I’m ready,” she said.

            “Excellent.” Daisy was actually rubbing her palms together in excitement. “Here, I’ll take your tray and meet you by the doors in five.”

            Jemma’s eyes trained on the bucket at the front of the crowd as Daisy departed. People were drawing and hurrying away, so the queue moved quickly. Jemma watched the folded slips of paper as they emerged from the bucket. _Almost time_.

A sound from someone at the back of the queue made her check over her shoulder. To her surprise, it was Fitz again—not immediately behind her this time, but a few places away. All traces of a flush had gone from his face, leaving him paler even than usual. If Jemma were not a woman of science, she would start to believe she’d acquired some kind of extrasensory awareness of him. Or maybe he really was following her. After all, he would be just as determined as she was to beat the competition.

            The thought gave her a rush of bravery as she stepped up to the bucket, stuck her fingers in, and drew. A few pieces of yellow paper came up at first, so she shook her hand, loosening them all until one remained between her thumb and forefinger. She checked it right there in case she’d drawn herself.

            A messy, illegible scrawl winked up at her. Not hers, then. Lance something. Jemma frowned as she crossed to where Daisy waited by the doors. She handed over her paper immediately, watching as Daisy’s expression became a mirror of her own.

            “Lance Hubert? Never heard of him.”

            Jemma took back the paper. “No, I think it says—” she squinted “—I think it says ‘Hunter.’ Lance Hunter.” Daisy shrugged. All around them and outside the hall doors, students were clustered in twos and three, heads bent over papers.

            “Hang on.” A flash of memory from the evening before: the blonde and her husband, both from Operations, discussing Assassin Week. Jemma had heard him called “Hunter.” She could hardly believe her own luck. “I think I might know him. Know _of_ him.”

            “Really?” Daisy sounded skeptical, but her attention was on the clock. Ten minutes to eight. “If you want, I could check my source—”

            “I think I’ll try the ethical way first,” Jemma said. “But thanks.”

            A brief smile. “No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a neutral zone to get to, aka the _only_ benefit to field exercises during revision week.”

            “Glad you could find a silver lining,” said Jemma with an answering smile.

            “Seriously. Text you tonight?”

            “Sounds good. Oh! And stay safe.”

            Daisy nodded and waved as she headed out the dining hall doors. Jemma waved back, but before walking out herself, she checked the queue at the bucket. Sure enough, Fitz was next in line to pull his slip of paper. She watched, more curious than she cared to admit, as he hurried forward and drew out his selection in slim, delicate fingers. He stepped to the side of the bucket and unfolded it carefully, frowning in concentration.

            Then, the oddest thing: his face, already pasty, paled further. He raised a shaky hand and ran it through messy curls, eyes trained on the paper as if to change its contents by sheer force of will. Jemma watched for a few seconds longer, but he continued to stare, and she had eight minutes to get to the library. After another moment, she gave it up and left.

            By the time she was safely ensconced at her favorite reading desk on the fifth floor, it was 8:01.

            Assassin Week had begun.

* * *

            Jemma was not normally the sort of person who acted without forethought. By walking into that common room on a whim, she had allowed her competitive spirit to get the better of her usual logic and reasoning. Therefore, she had compensated for this by researching Assassin Week for hours after signing up.

            Yes, the research had bitten into her sleep time, but so did her many late nights at the lab. She was accustomed to hard work and concentration on little rest. Besides, her study had been well worth it, for it had helped her to sketch out a plan of attack for the week ahead.

            Many participants made the mistake of holing up on Monday and Tuesday, she’d learned. They incorrectly assumed that the field was safer on Wednesday, when fewer people were still playing and fellow Assassins were not loitering left and right. However, statistically, it was safer to walk the campus on Monday than any other day of Assassin Week. As participants declined, the odds of being discovered—and taken out—increased.

            Therefore, Jemma had determined to cross the greatest campus distances on Monday and Tuesday—to the library, mainly, since she still had exams to study for, after all. Starting Wednesday, she would limit her travel to the student labs nearest her dorms and a café or two. She had already mapped the safest paths on campus based on the combined factors of distance, exposure, visibility, and traffic. She studied the map in between her exam revision, memorizing each path.

            The trickier part had been determining how she might approach her targets. Previous winners from the Science Division had often used their inventiveness to their advantage. One student over a decade earlier had used “love potions”—essentially pheromone bombs—to approach her targets flirtatiously and “kill” them while they were under the influence, so to speak. Jemma contemplated this idea, but abandoned it just as quickly. Her strengths did not include “pretending to flirt.”

            Operations Recruits were skilled at tracking their targets’ movements and psychology to discover patterns—almost _creepily_ so, Jemma thought, but she seemed to be in the minority on that one. The message boards glorifying Team Operations far outnumbered anything pro-Science or Communications.

            But in the end, Jemma was glad that she’d read them, because they gave her an idea.

            And Lance Hunter was the perfect target to test its execution.

 _No pun intended_ , Jemma thought, and then chuckled out loud before she could stop herself, earning a glare from a girl two desks away.

* * *

            Fortunately, the library had a café on its ground floor, which meant Jemma—and many others—stayed there all day. She was on her last exam notebook and her third cup of tea when Daisy texted.

            _S.O.S.,_ it read.

            _What happened?_

The three little dots that meant Daisy was composing her reply hovered in the text window for a long time. Jemma watched the phone screen, waiting. Was it possible that Daisy had already been eliminated? Her thoughts drifted to the training fields, an open area where anyone could ambush the group once class had ended—

            _No sleep + Red Bull + field exercises = very very angry Agent May. She kicked my ass._

Jemma let out her breath, repressing a relieved laugh. The girl two desks over glanced up and looked ready to glare daggers again.

            _I’m sure Agent May was only doing her job,_ Jemma typed back.

            _No, like, she literally kicked me in the butt because I couldn’t block in time._

            This time, Jemma couldn’t quite hold back her laugh. Glare Girl wasn’t the only person who turned sharply in her direction. Oh, well, it was time she packed up anyway. The sun had started its descent long ago, and Jemma wanted to get back to her dorms before evening. She’d lost count of how many times “night vision goggles” had come up on the Assassin message boards.

            By the time she was downstairs in the library lobby, notebooks packed into her bag and phone in hand, she’d sent, _What are you doing for dinner tonight?_

Daisy’s reply came immediately.

            _Meeting you at your place. I ordered pizza ten minutes ago._

Well, that answered that. Jemma rolled her eyes—there was no one around to witness—and double-checked that the coast was clear before leaving the library. She was surprised to see no loiterers or stakeouts, but then again, dinner would be served soon. Perhaps the crowd was at the dining hall instead.

            Her instincts proved to be correct. Taking one of her mapped-out paths, Jemma avoided the main walkways, but had a clear view over a short hedge to the dining hall. Bunches of students lingered outside, gathering among friends for protection but keeping wide spaces between themselves and other groups. It was a fascinating social experiment, really. Jemma began constructing a psychological study in her head, one that would analyze the maximum breaking point before “safety” because “overcrowding”—

            She brought herself back to the present with a shake of her head. She couldn’t afford to get lost in her thoughts as she usually did on these walks. No sooner had she reminded herself of that than she heard footsteps on the path behind her.

            _Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic_. She brought her left hand up to her right temple. This allowed her to protect her clothespin _and_ check over her left shoulder surreptitiously while “scratching an itch” at her forehead. Though he was still a good distance away, Jemma recognized “Call of Duty” from the dining hall that morning. By the look of things, his stern, disapproving expression hadn’t changed all day.

            Perhaps his face was already stuck that way.

            He was gaining on her, and fast, aided by the fact that his legs were about twice as long as hers. The hedge didn’t have an opening out onto the main campus quadrangle for another several meters. To her right was a sparse, grassy area leading to a pond—ideal for protection, unhelpful for escape. She stepped off the path in that direction anyway, thinking she could always jump in the water if it came to that.

            She’d have to work on her improvisation skills.

            But no sooner had she walked onto the grass than Call of Duty barged right past her, heading toward the hedge opening. He didn’t even glance over at her. She watched, her pulse still racing, as he crouched beside the opening so that he would be invisible to anyone on the other side. Hesitantly, Jemma wandered back onto the path, but slowed her walk to a crawling pace to stay as far away as possible.

            She didn’t have to wait long. She heard a snatch of conversation—murmured voices, perhaps three people walking together on the other side of the hedge. They were heading toward her from the other direction. When they reached the opening, Call of Duty moved like a panther, unfolding, lunging, snapping out a hand. A second later, it was over.

            “What the—?!”

            “Sorry, man.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. Jemma, torn between curiosity and a slight discomfort, couldn’t help but overhear. He held out a hand as she drew slowly closer. On his palm, a clothespin. “Game over.”

            “How the—who the hell are you?”

            “Why don’t you hand over your target and I’ll tell you?”

            “I’ve never even seen you before. How’d you know I’d be here?” The speaker was still invisible to Jemma, but it sounded like a man’s voice, cracking a little bit as if from nerves.

            “Your target,” said Call of Duty, impatient now.

            “Dude, that was insane.” But Jemma heard the rustling of paper as the victim moved to comply. Whoever was with him muttered something as well, too low to hear.

            “Thank you,” said Call of Duty, and Jemma saw him pocket the yellow slip without reading it. He gave a mocking half-bow, waving his hand and everything. “Grant Ward. The pleasure’s all mine.” And then he was gone, stalking off across the quadrangle toward the dining hall.

* * *

            Jemma was so absorbed in the memory of Grant Ward’s “attack” that she had forgotten Daisy would be meeting her at the Science Dorms. By the time she remembered, she was already standing outside her bedroom door, which meant she’d have to go all the way back down three flights of stairs to scan her friend into the building. She sighed, resigned to it, but decided to drop off her bag while she was up here. She un-pocketed her identity card to scan it at the reader beside her door.

            Readers were posted around nearly every door on campus. Most of the rectangular gray boxes contained nothing but a call button for emergencies and a blinking light—red if the scan was incorrect, green if it worked. A few of the highly secure rooms or buildings had biometrics readers as well—a fingerprint or handprint scanner, that sort of thing.

            As Jemma tapped her reader with a habitual flick of her hand, she noticed that the box had a slight wobble to it. Something appeared to have jarred it loose from its frame in the wall. _Weird_ , she thought, but the light flicked to green and she caught the distinct _click_ of her door unlocking. _I’ll have to let maintenance know_ , she decided, and pushed her way into the room.

            Only to jump in surprise at the sight of Daisy seated at her desk.

            “Daisy! What—?” Her bag slipped off her shoulder and fell to a puddle at her feet. “How did you get in here?”

            Daisy jumped up and crossed to the door behind Jemma. “Stealthily,” she said, a warning in her voice. She popped her head into the hall, checked both ways, and pushed the door shut until it locked with another _click_. “With help from one or two bent rules.”

            “ _Bent rules?!_ ” Something clicked in Jemma’s thinking. “Wait . . . don’t tell me you’re responsible for the damage to my reader?”

            Daisy held up her hands. “Look, before you get mad, that was an unintentional side effect, okay? And, clearly—” she waved her arms in a wild gesture to indicate Jemma’s entrance “—it still works. No harm done.”

            “No harm—!” Jemma stopped and took a deep breath, then bent to retrieve her forgotten bag. Keeping busy would help her keep calm. “Is that how you broke into the labs, too? Messing with readers?”

            Daisy scoffed. “Are you kidding? All I had to do _that_ time was flirt with the guy at reception.”

            Jemma shot her a disapproving frown.

            “I waited,” said Daisy, her voice somewhat subdued, “until I could test out my theory on my friend’s bedroom door, as any sane person would.”

            “A sane person would have done it on her _own_ room, or better yet, not at all!”

            The discussion was interrupted by the dual-toned _ding_ of Daisy’s cell phone. She pulled it from her pocket, swiped to read a text, and glanced up with a guilty smile. “Pizza’s here,” she said.

            Jemma crossed her arms. Silence. She warred with herself as Daisy looked on, biting her lip. After a while and against her better judgment, Jemma said, “Fine. I’ll go get the pizza if you promise to explain what you did to my reader. And _why_.”

            Daisy’s smile lit her face. “Deal.”

* * *

            One hour and half a pizza later, the girls were huddled over Daisy’s laptop, scrolling through Antoine Triplett’s scan history.

            “Oh, this is wrong,” Jemma said, not for the first time. “This is very, very wrong and I should not be sanctioning it.”

            “You’re not sanctioning. You’re bearing witness. Against your will. Trust me, I’ll deny your involvement until the end.”

            Jemma rolled her eyes at Daisy, who was grinning, but chose not to comment as they continued to scroll.

_18:10:43 Rogers Barracks #31145_

_18:11:55 Rogers Barracks #35145b_

Those were Antoine’s most recent scans, most likely to get into the Operations Dorms and then his room. Beside the log, which went all the way back to his first scan at the Academy over two years prior, was a photo of him. He was handsome, Jemma thought, with a confident smile that indicated grinning came easily to him. Under the photo were fingerprint scans and other biometrics.

            Before starting this questionable and _very_ unethical search, Jemma had heard the full story of Daisy’s escapades. Apparently the readers in all Communications buildings on campus were non-networked, making it impossible to hack through them to the main server where the reader data was stored. Made sense, considering the . . . _individuals_ who would have access to them. However, maintenance on non-networked readers was much more difficult, which meant the Academy used them as little as possible. Science and most of Operations were auto-networked to the main servers.

            Daisy explained that every time Jemma scanned her identity card, a chip within the card sent Jemma’s identity information from the reader to the main server, where her identity was verified. The main server then communicated back to the reader to unlock the doors (or not, depending on where she was).

            Therefore, all Daisy had to do was hack into the reader computer buried within the gray box and use that IP address to access the main server. From there, even if she scanned her own identity card, she could choose the profile of any person who was _supposed_ to have access to the door, and send back that identity to the reader instead.

            Voila. Doors unlocked.

            With the added bonus of access to the scan history of everyone on campus.

            “I’m not sure why I thought I’d feel _more_ secure when that explanation was finished,” Jemma had said.

            Daisy had reassured her by saying, “Oh, don’t worry. Even if another Commie _does_ figure this out, I’m pretty sure they’re not the types to sneak in and murder you.”

            A comforting thought indeed.

            Now, several minutes later, Daisy startled Jemma back to reality by saying, “Pretty hot, don’t you think?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Antoine.” Daisy tilted her head to take in his photo, her grin widening. “Not bad at all, right? Look at that smile.”

“If only you weren’t supposed to metaphorically kill him.”

            “True,” Daisy said, her grin turning to a frown as she scrolled back up through the log. “And speaking of which . . .”

            She opened another window on her computer and began filling it with code, her fingers moving deftly over the keyboard. As Jemma watched, Daisy copied a section of the log over to the new window and hit “Enter.”

           “This should spit out his likely Tuesday schedule, based on previous weeks this semester,” she explained, watching as new text began to appear.

            Jemma considered this. Clever, yes, but not taking into account . . . “What about revision week?”

            Daisy blinked at the screen, which continued to spit out Antoine’s most likely Tuesday schedule. She turned to Jemma. “Dammit,” she said.

            This would normally have been Jemma’s cue to say “cheaters never prosper” or “that’s what you get for breaking the rules.” However, as she opened her mouth, something in Antoine’s predicted Tuesday schedule caught her eye.

            She shut her mouth.

            “What is it?” asked Daisy, following Jemma’s gaze to the computer.

            Jemma hesitated. If she gave advice, she’d be crossing the line from casual observer to willing participant. But a random snippet of Dr. Weaver’s speech snuck into her mind: “use your ingenuity and you are sure to succeed.” And wasn’t this just a form of ingenuity, combining Daisy’s and her own?

            “Look there.” Jemma pointed. “Lunch is listed on the schedule.”

            “So?”

            “So that means he’s had lunch at the same place enough times over the course of the semester for your program to consider it a likely recurrence. Get it?” Jemma read from the proposed schedule: “ _The Red Door Café_. Isn’t that outside Rogers Barracks?” She shrugged. “It’s not a guarantee, but . . .”

            “Jemma, you’re brilliant!” Daisy grabbed a sticky note from Jemma’s desk and scribbled that down. “I owe you one. Wait—what was your guy’s name? Hubert?”

            “Lance Hunter,” said Jemma before thinking. She realized her mistake as soon as Daisy started typing again. “But you don’t have to look him up!”

            Too late. His photo and scan log appeared on screen a second later. Jemma covered her eyes. “Oh, I don’t want to see this!”

            “Actually, I think you do.” Jemma caught a new shade to Daisy’s voice—amusement? Excitement?

            “What is it?” Jemma asked, still covering her eyes.

            Now the mischief in Daisy’s voice was unmistakable. “Looks like we’ve got a double date at the Red Door Café.”

* * *

**Tuesday**

            “Apparently, I was wrong. Can we leave now?”

            Daisy paid no attention to Jemma, using her laptop camera to adjust the clothespin clipped in her hair. “You’re never wrong,” she said absentmindedly as she worked. “Just give it a few more minutes.”

            “That’s what you said two hours ago,” said Jemma, but her argument was cut short as the café door opened and Leo Fitz walked in.

            As if this “double date” could get any worse.

            Jemma shifted her eyes away from him, sinking in her seat, but she was too slow. She could _feel_ his gaze turn in their direction as he walked up to the counter.

            “A-ha!” Daisy transferred her attention from her adjustments to Jemma’s rapidly reddening cheeks. “You were saying?”

            “I was _saying_ that I had a room reserved at the library, and I was supposed to be there an hour ago.”

            “Mm-hmm.”

            “It had a whiteboard and everything.”

            “But that was before . . .” Daisy flicked her head in the direction of the counter. Fortunately, Fitz couldn’t have seen, because his back was to both of them as he ordered.

            “I don’t see how Fitz’s arrival is relevant to this discussion,” Jemma said primly, brushing a few stray crumbs from their table.

            “Of course not. Silly me. You were saying, about the library . . . ? Oh wait, he’s coming over!”

            Jemma whirled sharply toward the counter, sitting up in surprise, only to discover Fitz’s back still turned. He was pulling something from his pocket to pay. By the time Jemma was facing her friend again, Daisy had dissolved into laughter.

            “Sorry, couldn’t resist,” she said after a second. “You should’ve seen the look on your—”

            “Daisy.” Jemma sat up again, sharpening her attention, but this time she was focused on the door of the café, not the counter.

            “—just saying, most people would’ve categorized that as _excited_ —”

            “Daisy!” Jemma nodded at the café door. “Look!”

            A group of four Operations Recruits had just come in the café, led by the tall blonde whom Jemma had seen in the dining hall. Behind her stood Lance Hunter—a good few inches shorter—and, behind _him_ , Antoine Triplett. The fourth was someone Jemma didn’t recognize: a man tall enough to tower over all three of his companions and muscled enough to bench press their combined weights. Approximately.

            Jemma’s stomach knotted in several places at once.

            “It’s okay,” Daisy was saying, apparently to herself. “It’s okay. We’re fine. We have a plan, and we’ll execute the plan, and then I’ll ask my target out on a date because _damn_ , have you _seen_ that smile?”

            “Daisy. Concentrate.”

            “Right. Plan.” But Daisy was already typing away at her laptop, disabling the café Wi-Fi. The Operations group was just starting to order. Fitz, Jemma noticed, was standing at the far counter behind them, waiting for his drink. For some reason, it irked her that he would be here to witness her attempted “kill.” What if she botched it and made a fool of herself in front of him?

            Why did she care?

            “Jemma?” said Daisy, drawing her attention away from Fitz. “Any time now.”

            “Right.” Jemma stood from the table and got in the queue behind Muscles, tugging her left shirtsleeve—and its clothespin—tight against her palm in case anyone targeting _her_ got any ideas. From her spot behind the Operations group, Jemma had an ideal vantage point for discovering the clothespins littered about on the people in front of her.

            Objective #1: Discover Antoine’s clothespin.

            This was easy enough. As Antoine turned to confer with Hunter over their order, Jemma noticed a spot of dull beige between buttons near the top of his shirt. She pretended to have an itch at exactly that same spot—her lower collarbone area—signaling its location to Daisy, who was supposed to be watching. They hadn’t anticipated it would be so obvious—but, Jemma thought, they’d take what they could get.

            Objective #2: Lure him to their table.

            This was the hard part. As the Operations group paid and moved away from the counter, Jemma hurried forward and asked the barista in carrying tones, “Um, excuse me, but my friend and I seem to be having some problems with your Wi-Fi. Is it working today?”

            “Should be.” The girl behind the counter shrugged. “It’s spotty sometimes. Have you tried turning off Wi-Fi and turning it on again?”

            “Yes . . .” Sure enough, Antoine, Hunter, and the blonde were loitering near enough to catch the conversation. _Come on, come on,_ Jemma thought to herself. _Please let us be right_. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

            “Well, I can’t exactly leave the counter to help, so . . . maybe ask around?” said the girl, half-apologetic, half-annoyed.

            Not the politest response, but it couldn’t have played better into Jemma’s plans if it had been scripted in advance. “Right,” she said with a nod and a hesitant step back from the counter. She hoped her expression was somewhere between “grateful” and “forlorn.”

            Sure enough, a voice from the Operations group caught her attention. Unfortunately, it was a much more _feminine_ voice than they had anticipated.

            “Maybe we could help?” This from the tall blonde, her smile genuine as she touched Jemma lightly on the arm—the right arm. “I’ve spent way too much time in here. The Wi-Fi can be tricky.”

            “Really? Oh, um . . . help would be great,” Jemma managed, employing all her willpower not to shoot Daisy a worried look. “I’m Jemma, by the way.”

            “I’m Bobbi.” The blonde smiled and offered a hand to shake.

            Jemma hesitated—only for a second, but long enough for Bobbi to notice.

            “And I’ve already been eliminated from the whole Assassin thing, so you’re at no risk from me,” she added. Her voice was rueful, but her continuing smile was genuine.

            “Great to meet you, Bobbi,” said Jemma, shaking her hand with relief. “My friend Daisy is the one over . . . there . . .”

            Jemma’s voice trailed off as they both turned to discover Antoine already bending over Daisy’s right shoulder. Over her left, Hunter and Muscles—Jemma would really have to learn his name—leaned together toward the screen.

            “Funny,” said Bobbi, her voice sardonic. “I think the guys found her on their own.”

            Jemma gave her a weak smile, but her head was skipping forward to Objective #3: steal the clothespin. And sure enough, as she watched, Daisy lifted her right hand, not moving her head, and— _snip—_ unclipped the clothespin from Antoine’s shirt in one deliberate motion, so smoothly it was like she moved through water.

            The silence that fell over the group spread outward like ripples in a pond, quieting the rest of the café. Jemma’s face burned, and she didn’t quite know why. Antoine’s friends wore varying degrees of horror on their faces.

            Then, breaking the silence, a warm, rich laugh. It was Antoine, chuckling at first, then clutching his stomach, his shoulders shaking, as his laughter grew louder. “Damn,” he said when he could speak again.

            “Gotcha,” said Daisy, grinning up at him.

            He matched her smile with his own sunny grin. “You sure did.”

            Jemma let out her breath. _One down, one to go._ The knots in her stomach inched their way into her throat. She hoped she could execute her part of the plan so easily.

            Bobbi was watching her, the smile frozen on her face. “Nice one.”

            Jemma twisted her hands together— _not_ a part of her act, but it happened to work well with her sheepish smile, which was. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No hard feelings?”

            Bobbi was silent for a while, considering, until she rolled her eyes and said, “Honestly, I was starting to get bitter that I was the only one.”

            Antoine, Hunter, and Muscles were already pulling chairs over to Daisy’s table, so Bobbi drifted in that direction as well, Jemma right behind her. When they reached the others, an array of cries came up from the guys.

            “If you’ve brought another traitor into our midst, Bob—”

            “—did you see that?”

            “Still glad I’m not playing.”

            Bobbi raised her arms. “All right, I think we can agree that was better than mine, right?” The guys laughed, and the atmosphere around the table eased. “Guys, this is Jemma. Jemma, you probably know Trip, your innocent victim—” Trip nodded in greeting, his friendly smile unaltered by Bobbi’s words “—but that’s Mack, and this is my unfortunate husband, Hunter.”

            “Unfortunately your husband or your unfortunate husband?” But Bobbi rolled her eyes again, and Hunter shifted his attention to Jemma instead, eyeing her suspiciously.

            “I can vouch for her,” said Daisy.

            “This from the girl who basically just murdered our friend.”

            Daisy returned Hunter’s narrowed eyes. “Yeah, _metaphorically._ And he doesn’t seem to mind.”

            “Please,” said Trip. “If I’d known _you_ were my Assassin, I would have tracked you down yesterday and volunteered.”

            Daisy wasn’t the type to blush, but Jemma thought the smile she gave Trip in reply was about as close as she’d ever get.

            “She’s a lot better than mine, that’s for sure,” said Bobbi darkly as she took the seat beside Hunter.

            “What happened?” asked Daisy.

            This was it. This was the perfect moment. Everyone was settled in their seats—ignoring Jemma, which was exactly what she wanted. She searched Hunter, who had his arm around Bobbi now, but his clothespin was nowhere to be seen.

            Unfortunately, he glanced up at her just then. Bobbi fell silent as all heads turned Jemma’s way. Daisy’s eyes were screaming _Act natural_ , but Jemma ignored this and bent forward. Her heart beat heavily enough to set her ears throbbing.

            “Sorry,” she said, pretending to reach under Bobbi’s seat, where Hunter surely couldn’t see. As she did so, she pulled a second clothespin out from under her _right_ sleeve. By the time she straightened, it was resting in her palm as if she’d found it on the floor. “Is this yours?” she asked Hunter.

            As she’d known he would, he glanced exactly to where his clothespin was currently clipped—the inside of his right trouser cuff, as it turned out. He lifted his right leg and pointed so that she could see its dull beige line. “Nope. Still got mine. See?”

            She pretended to be missing it. “Where?” She walked around Bobbi’s chair to get closer, squinting, still holding the extra clothespin as if to present it to him. Her palm was sweating, but her voice sounded calm and politely curious—a miracle in itself.

            “Just there,” he said, pointing again and lifting his foot higher, high enough for her to reach.

            So she bent forward and plucked it off.

* * *

            “I can’t believe it,” Hunter said for the fiftieth time over their coffees. Bobbi wore a lopsided smile that might even have been a little impressed. “Did you know?”

            “No, Hunter, I told you, I didn’t know.” She met Jemma’s gaze and sighed, exaggerating her irritation. Jemma, her cheeks still hot and her heart pounding even a quarter of an hour later, folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling. She loved a good competition, yes, but she hadn’t thought that eliminating her target would make her feel so . . . _guilty._

“We got played,” said Trip, patting Hunter on the back. “Accept it and move on.”

            “But—my revenge mission—”

            This time Bobbi’s irritation needed no exaggeration. “Ugh, give it up, will you? Honestly, Jemma, I thought that was pretty brilliant.”

            “Et tu, Bobbi?” Hunter’s voice was completely serious, but the rest of them laughed, Jemma included. It eased the remaining tension enough so that Daisy could jump in and say, “At least let us buy you a round to make up for it. Coffee, or maybe . . . beers later?”

            Jemma thought this was a very kind and attentive consideration until it occurred to her that Daisy was _using_ their Assassin game to ask Trip out for drinks. She glared across the table, but she’d look terribly rude if she rejected the idea now. She forced a smile and said, “Yes. Really. We insist.”

            Trip answered first in the affirmative, and everyone else chimed in, suggesting locations and times. Jemma tried to pay attention, but was immediately distracted by the slip of folded yellow paper in her hands. She hadn’t had a chance to read it after Hunter grudgingly tossed it across the table at her.

            Before she could unfold it, someone slipped past her chair, bumping her elbow as they moved. “Oh—sorry—” came the voice, its Scottish accent so familiar to Jemma now that she might very well start hearing it in her sleep. Fitz. The back of his neck was red, but he hadn’t stopped to hear a response from her, so she watched him silently retreat until he was out the café doors. Had he stayed to see her entire takedown, from the Wi-Fi question to the clothespin on the floor? Jemma felt her face heat up again, just as the rush of adrenaline from “killing” Hunter was starting to fade.

            _Don’t be stupid_ , she told herself. Fitz had most likely been finishing his drink. In fact, he probably hadn’t even glanced in her direction since he’d first entered the café. What reason did he have to do so?

            Unless he was monitoring his competition?

            The thought kept her occupied for so long that she forgot about the slip of paper in her hands. She stared at the doors through which Fitz had disappeared, wondering how _he_ would take out his first target—or if he already had? A vision of his pale face and trembling hands from that morning appeared in her mind’s eye, sharpening her curiosity even further.

            It wasn’t until the others were saying goodbye that Jemma jumped to alertness, managing half a smile and a nod. Her movement rustled the paper one more time. She glanced down, shaking her thoughts clear of Leo Fitz, and started to unfold it.

            Once it was open, she blinked. Stared. Blinked again.

            Straight, precise letters spelled out _Grant Douglas Ward._

* * *

 

           

 


	2. Part 2: Tuesday - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Part 2, with twenty minutes to spare before midnight in my time zone. ;) Haha, but really, thank you everyone who has read and enjoyed this so far! Your readership, comments, and kudos bring me indescribable happiness. Cheesy, I know, but absolutely 100% true. Thank you. <3
> 
> Also P. S. I got a little carried away (again) and I still have a teeeeny bit more story to tell. So, yes, there will be a Part 3. I'll be posting it tomorrow, though, and then I PROMISE this will be complete! Now, on to Part 2 . . .

* * *

 

**Tuesday**

            “I don’t get it,” said Mack, fingers curling tighter around his beer as he shrugged. “Why not run up and steal it before they can blink?”

            “It’s not that simple, mate,” said Hunter. He’d become more animated with each pint, slapping his palm on the table for emphasis. He tilted his head at Bobbi. “Bob, explain.”

            She shrugged at Mack. “You can’t give yourself away.” Her own beer, her first, was a few sips down, the frosty glass dripping condensation on its cardboard coaster. “Try for a grab and they run, you’re screwed. Now they know exactly who you are.”

            “But if you’re fast enough?”

            “You can’t cause ‘bodily harm,’ remember?” Hunter’s air quotes almost hit Jemma in the eye. He did not sound particularly pleased with this rule.

            “Yeah, it’s a real bummer.”

            “Preaching to the choir, love,” said Hunter, oblivious to Bobbi’s sarcasm. He drained his beer. “Right. Who wants another round? Jemma?”

            “Oh. No, thank you, I’m fine.”

            “Suit yourself. Mack?”

            Mack and Hunter left their table for the bar in the center of the room. Even with the gray concrete of the wall behind her back, Jemma felt exposed here. The Assassin discussion hadn’t helped to ease this sensation. At any moment, she expected Grant Ward to pop out of an alcove and parkour over to her clothespin like a super soldier—which was ridiculous, she thought, because _she_ was supposed to be targeting _him._ Not the other way round.

            “You seem nervous.” Bobbi’s tone was neither judgmental nor teasing—it held the objectivity of simple observation. Yet Jemma detected a flash of sympathy in her eyes.

            “I am,” she admitted, fidgeting with her half-empty glass of beer. “My strategy didn’t include . . .”

            “Hanging out in enemy territory?”

            Jemma gave a tight smile. “Exactly.”

            That turned Bobbi’s lips up at the corners. She surveyed the room, probably taking in even more tactical elements than Jemma had—the number of exits, their precise locations, how many people stood between their table and each one. Jemma corrected herself: Bobbi surely knew all of this already. After all, they were in her barracks.

            Well, not technically. They were in the basement of her barracks, in a clandestine pub called Dugan’s. The entrance was a nondescript gray door, nearly invisible, with no signage—not even a reader. “Security’s too good inside to need one,” Hunter had said, and now that they were here, Jemma understood. The place was scattered with men and women who had one thing in common: they all looked like they had gone through the Captain America machine.

            And they were all dressed in black, she noticed on her second sweep of the room. So, two things.

            Bobbi leaned forward and took a sip of beer, her eyes shifting back to Jemma. When she set down her glass, she said, “Don’t worry. If anyone’s going to take down Ward, I bet it will be you.”

            Jemma couldn’t quite suppress a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m sorry?”

            “Because you’re small. Polite. Inexperienced in the field.”

            “If you’re meant to be boosting my confidence, that’s not _quite_ —”

            “He’ll underestimate you,” Bobbi interrupted, her voice firm. “And you’re a hell of a lot smarter than he is.” Now she sat back, her smile unmistakable. “So I, for one, am going to enjoy every second of it.”

* * *

            Hunter and Mack had finished their next round by the time Daisy and Trip appeared from . . . wherever they had wandered off to upon the group’s arrival.

            “Sorry,” said Daisy, breathless and a little flushed. “Trip was showing me the Achievement Wall.”

            “I bet he was,” said Hunter from beside Jemma. Trip looked a little bashful, but he was grinning down at Daisy, their arms rubbing as they leaned against the table side-by-side.

            “And what did you think?” Bobbi said, crossing her arms. “Impressed yet?”

            Daisy shrugged. “I mean, how many different ways can you win a fight?”

            Bobbi laughed. “You wouldn’t ask that question if you’d seen them.”

            Jemma tuned out as the debate continued, eying the fighting ring in the far corner with a funny taste in her mouth. The last thing she needed to imagine was the vivid picture of Grant Ward in hand-to-hand combat. The “no harm” rule was the furthest thing from her mind as she remembered the way he had crouched by the hedge, waiting—

            “Actually, Jemma, there’s something you should see.”

            “What?”

            Daisy was already around the table, tugging her to standing. “Come here for a sec.”

            “But—” Jemma couldn’t think of a protest stronger than “I’d feel exposed walking across the room,” so she shut her mouth, reluctantly allowing Daisy to drag her away. They reached a low-ceilinged hallway and turned left, away from the toilets. Up a few stairs and there it was: the Achievement Wall. The “achievements” it celebrated were made obvious by framed photos, some old enough to be in black and white, showing Operations Recruits with their arms raised in triumph in the ring. Most of them had black eyes or bloodied knuckles.

            “Ugh,” said Jemma, staring at one of a small woman wearing such a scowl, you’d have no idea from the photo that she had just been declared a champion. “It’s barbaric.”

            “That’s Agent May,” said Daisy, awe and admiration in her voice. “Look, she’s not even bleeding.”

            “That we can see.”

            “Trust me, she’s not. She’s _that good_.” Daisy blinked at the photo. “But come on—this is what I wanted you to see.” She tugged Jemma to the end of the hall, where a screen was embedded in the wall. “The only Assassin standings board on campus.”

            Jemma stepped closer to the screen, her mouth falling open. She could see two columns: “Remaining Participants” and “Total Kills.” The participants were labeled alphabetically by last name, so Jemma only recognized one or two people in the section that was visible on screen. But she recognized the leader on the Kill List right away: G. Ward. “Forty-eight kills? How is that even possible?”

            “I know, right?” Daisy shot Jemma a worried glance. “That’s one kill per hour, assuming he doesn’t stop to sleep. Which wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

            Jemma’s eyes locked on the top of the list, but Daisy stepped up to the screen and began scrolling down with her index finger, as she would with a tablet. Sure enough, the lists moved on the screen, until the “Participants” tab showed the J section. “Check it out. There’s me . . . ” She pointed at _D. Johnson_ and continued scrolling down to S. “ . . . And there’s you!”

            The Kill List had continued along with the Participants, now showing the people with only one kill each. “And here we are again,” Daisy said, pointing to their names on the Kill list. She kept scrolling until she hit the end of the page and turned back to Jemma. “Pretty cool, right?”

            But something at the bottom of the screen caught Jemma’s eye.

_L. Fitz            0 kills_

            “Yeah,” said Jemma, her attention snagged on that name. “Interesting.”

            Daisy misinterpreted her distraction for fear. “It’s an unofficial list,” she said quickly. “Some of this stuff might not even be accurate. It’s based on hearsay. In fact, we’re not _technically_ supposed to know who’s left. I suspect they might have recruited a Commie for this . . .” She glared at the offending screen. “Traitor.”

            But Jemma didn’t reply, her thoughts centered on Fitz and his lack of kills. It had already been two days. Perhaps his strategy was to wait out the battle until the very end? But what if someone else targeted him first? She felt an inexplicable disappointment for which she then berated herself. Shouldn’t she be relieved—triumphant, even—that her rival had been out of the picture thus far?

            “Jemma?” Daisy asked in a quiet voice, worried now. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have showed you, except . . . well, it’s not every day I’m on a leader board.”

            Jemma tore her gaze from the screen. “ _Standings_ board,” she corrected with a smile. “We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

            Daisy’s eyes flashed with relief at this return to gentle teasing. “Right. Yes. I knew I could count on you to keep a level head.” She began to wander back down the hall toward the bar.

            Jemma glanced at the screen a final time before following. All she could think was, _I’m not so sure you should._

* * *

 

**Wednesday**

            “Daisy?”

            “Hngh?”

            “Daisy, it’s Jemma. I’m downstairs.”

            “Downstairs where?”

            Jemma sucked in a deep breath, seeking patience. Her eyes scanned the area around the Communications cluster as she spoke, watching for threats. Fortunately, campus had been empty on her walk over, since it was before eight during a revision week. But one could never be too careful. “Downstairs _here_.” Silence. “Your dorm? Our meeting? We planned it last night, remember?”

            Slurred, sleep-infused cursing was all the answer that Jemma needed. She sighed, continuing to watch her surroundings. On the other end of the phone, thumps and a few dull crashes punctuated Daisy’s cursing, until at last she quieted. “Okay, don’t move. I’ll be right down.”

            Jemma hung up and pocketed her phone, still squinting at the surrounding buildings. An overcast sky held morning captive in the east, darkening the space around corners and under trees. The smell of wet grass and oncoming rain promised a stormy afternoon. Jemma’s senses sharpened, heightening at every touch of breeze, to the point that when the door opened behind her, she jumped.

            “It’s me,” said Daisy, holding the door open. Her dark hair was mussed, a few tendrils slipping out of her messy ponytail. Red circles weighed down her eyes. “I can’t believe I agreed to meet this early. I must’ve been drunker than I thought.”

            “I think you did it to impress Trip,” said Jemma, following Daisy into the building. The dormitory, like the rest of the Communications cluster, was all sturdy red brick on the outside and warm mahogany on the inside. Ironically, these were some of the oldest buildings on campus, retrofitted with the most advanced modern technology. Compared to the pristine glass of the Science buildings and the harsh concrete of Operations, Daisy’s dorm was comforting, like an armchair before a fire and a steaming mug of tea. Granted, the plumbing wasn’t great, but wooden staircases and ivy-drenched windows were worthy of some sacrifices.

            Daisy led them up to the second floor and down the carpeted hallway to her room. She scanned her way through a reader that looked rather the worse for wear and collapsed face-first on her bed as soon as the door shut behind them.

            “Can you wake me up when the planning is over?” she said, her voice muffled by her pillow.

            Jemma surveyed the room. Clothes lay everywhere, leaving very little carpet space for movement, but she managed to pick her way over to Daisy’s messy desk. Clearing aside some papers to make room for her bag, Jemma claimed the desk chair and spun to face the bed. “I brought you something that might help,” she said.

            Daisy opened one eye. “Something . . . caffeinated?”

            Jemma reached into her bag and withdrew a thermos. “Technically, yes, but not as much as you probably need.” She pulled out a can of whipped cream with her other hand. “It’s chocolaty, though. Does that help?”

            “Chocolate helps. Chocolate is good.” Daisy was already sitting up on the bed, reaching over to her side table to pull a couple of mugs from a drawer. At Jemma’s look, she said, “They’re clean, I promise.”

            “Right.” Jemma’s was not entirely convinced, but she relinquished the hot cocoa and allowed Daisy to pour. After all, they had people to kill.

            A few minutes later, steaming mug in hand, Daisy began, “So . . . Ward . . .”

            “I thought we might start with your target,” Jemma said, cutting her off. She didn’t want to admit it to Daisy, but the thought of Ward still made her pulse race—and not in a pheromone bomb sort of way. “Lincoln Campbell. He’s a couple of years ahead of me in Science, training to be a field medic, I believe. Any ideas?”

            Daisy sipped her cocoa, leaving a mustache of whipped cream behind. Her expression was pensive. “Hmm. Let me see.” She set aside her mug, licking her lips as she tugged her laptop up from the floor.

            “Daisy . . .”

            “Okay, I may have set up direct access from my laptop to the server without telling you. Might as well get that out of the way now.” Jemma opened her mouth to protest, but Daisy spoke first. “Look how it worked out for us last time!”

            Jemma shut her mouth. She sipped her cocoa, trying to think of a counterargument.

            “You know Ward will use any cheat he can get his hands on,” Daisy said softly. “Why shouldn’t we?”

            Jemma took another sip. “Oh, fine, look him up,” she said when she was finished.

            “Yes!” Daisy started to do a fist pump but held back at Jemma’s expression. “I mean, good call.” She set to work typing instead, and a few minutes later, Lincoln Campbell’s photo appeared on her laptop screen, followed by his scan log.

            “Hmm,” said Daisy, her eyes on the picture. “Not bad.”

            But Jemma only had eyes for his log. There were already a handful of entries for that morning. The latest few read:

_06:48:15 Escher Laboratories #100_

_06:48:43 Escher Laboratories #102_

_06:49:52 Escher Laboratories #103b_

            Daisy seemed to know well enough by then what Jemma looked like when she had an idea. “What is it?” she asked.

            “He’s still in the student labs. See? The numbers increase. It’s safe to assume that he’s gone deeper into the building. Lab #3B . . .” The ideas were already lining up in her head. Daisy waited, sensing more. Jemma could not resist smiling. “I think I have a plan,” she said.

            “Excellent,” said Daisy, matching her grin. “Just let me get some more hot chocolate.”

* * *

            Jemma patted her hair down over her ears. “Can you hear me now?” She directed the question from the right corner of her mouth, feeling like an idiot, even though the lab hallways were empty, so no one could see her talking to herself.

            “Loud and clear,” came Daisy’s voice through the earpiece in her right ear. “You can stop asking that now.”

            “You’re not the one talking to an empty hallway,” said Jemma, turning a corner toward labs 3A and 3B.

            “No, I’m talking to a stone wall. Trust me, I look crazier.”

            Jemma smiled, then forced her expression blank as she neared the doors to 3B. “Where did you even get these?” she whispered.

            “If you’re worried that I stole them, don’t be. I’m in Communications, remember?” Daisy’s voice was smug. “I’m finally using a tool that _doesn’t_ break any rules.”

            “Hmm. Good point.” Jemma hesitated, ducking her head to hide her lips as she pretended to dig in her bag for her identity card. “Okay, I’m about to scan in.”

            “Lovely. Remember the code word.”

            Jemma’s shaking fingers closed around the identity card, and a second later, she was holding it to the reader. “I really wish you’d let _me_ choose that next time,” she muttered, but then the lab doors were sliding open. No more chance to talk.

            She scanned the room from the corners of her eyes as she hurried forward into the lab. There, back right, near the window. Lincoln’s blonde hair and white lab coat were familiar from his server photo. He was currently bent over a microscope, his stance relaxed to the point that he didn’t even look up from his work—or bother to hide the clothespin on his right chest pocket. After all, this was a neutral zone.

            Jemma started back toward his workspace, painfully aware of how difficult the next step of her plan would be. _I can do this_ , she told herself, repeating it like a prayer in her head.

            That was before she spotted the unexpected complication.

            Leo Fitz was seated at the desk across from Lincoln’s. He _did_ glance up when Jemma entered the room, making her freeze mid-step. She could see the blue of his eyes from across the room, brought into sharp definition by his pale blue button-down shirt, strangely formal for the lab. But then, he had always been stylish.

            _Focus, Jemma_. Okay, so she had a witness. No big deal. Nothing had to change. Yes, Fitz was the last person _on earth_ she would have picked for her audience, but . . . She squeezed her hands together to still their trembling.

            “Jemma? Is he there? Speaking means yes.”

            “Oh.” Her voice sounded loud in the quiet lab. Lincoln glanced up from his microscope, his brows drawn. Jemma forced herself to smile. “I mean, oh, my, isn’t the lab crowded today?”

            “Relax,” said Daisy. “You’ll be fine. Act normal.”

            “I guess I’m not the only one trying to get a head start on revisions,” Jemma said in a conspiratorial stage whisper. Lincoln’s face went from puzzled to openly confused, especially as she dropped her bag with a loud _thump_ onto the desk in front of his and began noisily unpacking her books. “I mean, can you believe all the exams this term? They’re just so . . . difficult . . . and . . .” She said the first word that came into her head. “Strenuous . . .”

            “I’m sorry . . . do I know you?”

            “Perfect,” said Daisy in Jemma’s ear. “I think it’s working.”

            Jemma’s cheeks hurt from her fake grin. She could feel Fitz’s eyes burning into her peripheral vision, but she forced herself to face Lincoln and stick her hand out for a shake—blocking his access to the microscope. “Jemma Simmons,” she said.

            He hesitated, but he was too polite to ignore her handshake. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice distant. He tried to drop her fingers as quickly as possible, but Jemma clung to him and shook violently.

            “No, really, the pleasure is all mine,” she said through her teeth. “I mean, that lab coat really brings out your—skin. I mean your eyes. What did you say your name was?”

            His brows dropped again. “I didn’t.” He tugged his hand free at last, stretching his fingers. “Look, I was actually planning to work a while longer, so—”

            “Oh, of course,” said Jemma, taking in his desk with exaggerated surprise, as if she’d never seen a microscope before. “I’m sorry, I just get . . . so . . . enthusiastic about science.” She began to fiddle with the edges of his notebook. “It’s such a . . . tactile . . . art . . .”

            “What?” Daisy asked. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know. Keep going.”

            Jemma made the mistake of casting her eyes around for inspiration, her cheeks burning. From the opposite desk, Fitz was staring at her as if she had grown an extra pair of eyes on her forehead.

            “Right,” said Lincoln, reaching for his notebook and pulling it delicately out of her reach. “Um, that’s great and all, but—”

            “I like men with . . . pointy . . . noses . . .” She didn’t even know what she was saying anymore. “ . . . and surprisingly muscled . . . scientists—”

            “Okay,” said Lincoln, gathering his things. “You know what? I think I’m going to work next door—”

            “Wonderful! Me too,” she said, grabbing her bag.

            “—after I take a coffee break,” he amended, panic in his eyes. “In another building. Far from here.”

            “Good idea. And when you get back—”

            “It was, um, nice meeting you . . .” The lab doors slid shut over Lincoln’s words as he hurried away. Jemma had never seen a person move through the lab so quickly. She waited until he disappeared down the hall before hurrying to the window, where she should have a view of his preferred exit one floor down, if his scan log was anything to go by.

            “Manscaping,” she said, Daisy’s cue to come around the corner toward the door. “It’s on his right front pocket.”

            Silence.

            “Hello?” Jemma craned her neck to see out the window, but there was so sign of Daisy. “Manscaping,” she said again, more loudly, in case Daisy hadn’t heard. “Manscaping, manscaping, manscap—”

            The sound of a pen dropping behind her reminded Jemma that she wasn’t alone in the lab. She spun on her heels, fear clenching her heart. Fitz was bent over, fishing for his pen on the floor, but she caught the red of his cheeks all the same.

            _Oh, God._ When this was all over, she’d have to lock herself up in her room for a week to recover from the embarrassment. Why, _why_ did he of all people have to work in the lab today?

            A muted blip in her earpiece tore Jemma’s attention back to the window. Her pulse was racing as if she’d chugged four of Daisy’s milk-coffee-sugar concoctions in a row. She stuck her forehead to the glass, peering down, and saw—to her horror—that Lincoln and Daisy were no longer alone outside the building doors.

            “Oh, no,” Jemma muttered, chewing her lip. “Daisy, behind you—” But Daisy didn’t turn around, at least, not quickly enough.

            Jemma watched, powerless, as the dark silhouette of Grant Ward reached over Daisy’s head to tug the clothespin from her hair.           

            Then, just when Jemma thought the surprises were over, Daisy’s face bloomed with realization. She turned with lightning speed, abandoning her path toward Lincoln and whirling on Ward instead. Even from one floor up and at a slanted angle, Jemma could see the look of triumph on Ward’s face melt into astonishment as Daisy ran at him and tackled him to the ground.

* * *

            “Field exercises for a year,” said Daisy in greeting, waving a slip of paper in the air. “Coulson really wasn’t joking about that part.”

            Jemma frowned. For someone who had just broken a major rule, she sounded especially cheery—even for Daisy. “Am I missing something?”

            Daisy collapsed in the nearest chair, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. As she’d spent the last hour in Coulson’s office, Jemma imagined it was genuine. They were on the ground floor of the library, near the café, so their conversation—low as it was—didn’t seem to be bothering anyone. Daisy checked around them all the same, making sure they were clear of eavesdroppers, before leaning forward and whispering, “I found his clothespin, Jemma.”

            Jemma sat up. “What?”

            Daisy smirked. “I knew I was already a goner, and it was my only chance, see? So I just dove on him. I didn’t really have time to plan out anything more . . . graceful. And I couldn’t see it anywhere, but when I wrestled him to the ground, I felt it.”

Jemma’s throat felt tight. She swallowed. “And?”    

“He’s good. He painted it black—as camouflage. That’s why I couldn’t see it, even when I looked.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “But I felt it when I tried to step on his ankle.” Her smiled widened. “It’s on the laces of his left boot.”

* * *

 

**Thursday**

            Jemma decided not to set an alarm for Thursday morning. After all, her only plan was to go into the lab and catch up on some much-needed exam prep. Besides, she’d spent much of the evening before brainstorming—and stressing, and worrying. She could use a little rest.

            Yes, ninety percent of the stress and worry was directed toward Grant Ward, and with good reason. But she had to allot another ten percent for the memory of Leo Fitz’s face in the labs on Wednesday morning. It kept flashing over her vision in waves, especially the part where she shouted “manscaping” in a mild panic and then raced out of the lab and down the stairs. That was a highlight.

            In fact, that very memory woke her up on Thursday around 6 AM, giving her a racing pulse and a mild sweat despite the coldness of her room. So much for sleeping in. After some tossing and turning, she gave in and got up, wading through her morning routine with grudging acceptance. At least the campus would be quieter at that hour, making it safer for her to get to the labs from her room.

            All the same, she took no risks, power-walking over to Escher Laboratories and scanning her way in with a flick of her wrist. The Science student at the reception desk was asleep, forehead on arms, and also happened to be the only person Jemma saw on her way up to Lab #3A. Just the way she liked it.

            This time, the lab was empty. Jemma breathed a sigh of relief and crossed to her favorite desk, unpacking her bag to the first true feeling of safety she’d felt since Assassin Week had begun. In no time at all, she’d lost herself to the rhythm of her work, a form of meditation in itself. Her thoughts ticked through problem after problem, forgetting the looming pressures of Grant Ward and Leo Fitz.

            She worked until her text tone caught her attention. Digging through her bag, she found her phone and was surprised to see that it was already after 10 AM. The text was from Daisy—a photo. Jemma swiped it open and narrowed her eyes at the screen.

            It was the standings board from the Achievement Hall. The lists had shortened so dramatically that Jemma didn’t recognize the screen at first. Grant Ward’s kills had reached an astronomical 87, setting him well ahead of second place, one S. Carter with 32. Below them, Jemma and two others held paltry single-digit scores, and at the bottom, L. Fitz was still listed with zero. It seemed any participants who had already been eliminated were no longer left on the screen.

            Jemma frowned. Six participants. Two days left.

            And Fitz still hadn’t made a single kill.

            Yet he had somehow survived this long. Whatever his plan was, it was obviously working. The difficulty came during the last few hours, when you had to make your move or risk a draw, which meant no one would get the internship. Fitz probably didn’t know about the standings board, either, unless he had friends in Operations. His only way of solidifying a win would be to strike out and eliminate his target.

            _Getting close_ , Daisy sent after the pic, interrupting Jemma’s thoughts. _You have a plan for today?_

Jemma hesitated. _Wait it out,_ she sent back after a minute. _I’ll be in the labs for most of the day._

_Nice. Let me know if you need me to bring you food._

Jemma smiled before dropping her phone back into her bag. Daisy could always be relied upon for the essentials.

            After that, time passed like a dream. If the angle of the sun through the windows changed, Jemma didn’t notice, absorbed as she was in her lab work. No one came in or out all day, and she began to feel as if she had the whole campus to herself, her own private laboratory.

            Around 1:30, Jemma ventured out of the lab to the breakroom, snagged a few snacks and a cup of tea, and hurried back to the safety of the lab. She wasn’t quite hungry enough to take Daisy up on her offer. The lingering anxiety took some of her appetite away.

            About an hour later, she ran out of potassium nitrate in lab #3A. She could access more in a supply closet down the hall, which probably didn’t count as neutral territory but which was about as secure as doors got in an already secure building. A closet full of chemicals wasn’t the sort of place you wanted random students to wander into. All she had to do was nip down there, scan her way through the security, grab what she needed, and hurry back.

            Easy.

            That didn’t explain why her heart raced as she prepared to leave the lab again, but she took a deep breath before scanning out, which helped. Besides, the hallway was empty, as it had been since she’d arrived that morning. She hadn’t noticed anyone going past the lab.

            The closet was at the end of the hall, around the corner. She crept up to the bend and checked first, only moving forward when she was certain the coast was clear. It wasn’t until she made it to the supply closet that she remembered only Science students could scan their way into this building, anyway. The only other Science student on the Participants list had been Fitz. And there was no _way_ he had her name, because he’d had countless opportunities to eliminate her before now, and he hadn’t taken them.

            Her shoulders relaxed, losing their tension at this thought. It was with a lightened step that she scanned her identity card, then held her left palm against a second reader for the fingerprint image. Security measures complete, the door slid open, and Jemma stepped into the closet, heading straight to the shelf for potassium nitrate.

            Her body went rigid when she realized she was not alone.

            She heard the door slide shut behind her.

            That was when the power went out, throwing the closet into blackness.

* * *

            “Jemma?” Fitz’s voice came from somewhere on the other end of the tiny closet. Jemma was leaning back against the closet doors, or so she thought—the blackness was all-consuming, disorienting. “Are you okay?”

            “Yes” caught in her throat when she tried to reply, and a strangled sound emerged instead. She coughed. “I’m fine,” she said. “You?”

            “Fine.” His voice was quiet, hesitant. She imagined reaching her hands into the blackness and finding him. The closet was only so big—he couldn’t be far away. The urge was strangely powerful for all that it came on so suddenly.

            She coughed again, clearing her throat. “What are you—what are you doing in here?”

            “I could ask you the same question,” he said, with surprising vehemence. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “You’re supposed to be down the hall, working at your favorite desk in the back of laboratory 3A.”

            About a hundred indignant replies swam to the surface of Jemma’s thoughts, but the one that came out was, “How do you know which one is my favorite desk?”

            “I’ve only seen you working there, oh, I don’t know, every weekend for a year,” he muttered, definitely a bit irritated now. Jemma frowned through the inky blackness in the general direction of his voice. “But I suppose it’s easy to overlook people who are working _silently in the corner._ ”

            Considering they were trapped in a supply closet with no power and an electronically locking door, Jemma knew she should make escape her number one priority. But she caught the allusion in his voice and simply did not have the willpower to ignore it. “If you’re referring to yesterday in the lab—”

            “Of course I’m referring to yesterday in the lab,” he snapped. “Unless you make a habit of flirting shamelessly in the presence of a third party?”

            Jemma had lost sleep thinking about how to explain the Lincoln situation to Fitz, and here he had presented her with a perfect opportunity to do so. Yet all her ideas scattered in the wake of her annoyance that he was pretending to care. “If I did, it would be none of your business,” she said, matching his tone.

            “True,” he muttered. Then he said, “And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself stuck in here,” as if the two offenses were related.

            “It’s not as if I control the power,” said Jemma. Honestly, if this was what talking to Fitz was like, she couldn’t believe she’d ever hoped for a conversation. “And if you would be quiet and let me think for a moment, maybe I could find us a way out.”

            She heard a thump from his direction, followed by a sort of scratching. His voice came from lower down this time when he said, “It’s not that simple.”

            Jemma sighed. Either they were going to work together and get the door open despite the power outage, or they were going to stand here in the pitch black and fight all afternoon. She knew from the complete lack of lighting that the generators weren’t working, either—the reader lights would be blinking if that were the case. Perhaps the storm had taken out a power line _and_ the generators, although that was unlikely. Whatever was happening, a tiny closet in the lab building was not the best place to be.

            “On second thought, this is exactly where we want to be,” said Fitz, and Jemma was stunned to silence, wondering if he could read her thoughts. “If we could wait him out . . .”

            It took her almost a minute to overcome her shock and realize Fitz had merely been continuing some thought of his own. Weird, but not supernatural, she assured herself, though it was impossible to deny that Fitz unsettled her like no one else could. “What do you mean?” she asked when she was sure her voice was steady.

            “Ward cut the power,” said Fitz, in a voice that said he was disappointed she hadn’t picked up on this before now.

            “What? How can you be sure?”

            “Because I’ve been tracking him. On my phone. Which I seem to have lost.”

            Ah. That explained the scratching sounds. Fitz had gotten on his hands and knees and was feeling around the floor of the closet, she guessed, until his hand brushed across her ankles, proving her correct. She jumped.

            “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t see a bloody thing.”

            “Obviously,” she said, more annoyed at herself than at him. Her heartbeat may or may not have skittered at the feel of his hands across her legs. Her _legs_. And that was for about a millisecond, before he’d pulled his fingers away.

            “Hang on, I’ll help you look,” she said, hoping that would convince him to scoot back to the other side. But when she knelt to the floor and began crawling forward, her hands spread, they collided instantly with his. Their fingers overlapped for a moment, falling side by side.

            She sat up in a rush and smacked her head on the door. “Ow.”

            “Sorry—” To her shock, Fitz crawled closer. He stopped when his knees hit hers, but this time, he didn’t pull back. Perhaps he didn’t feel them touching, Jemma thought, though how he was able to ignore it, she longed to know. She felt as if her kneecaps were on pins and needles. “Are you okay?”

            “I’ll be fine,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper without really meaning to. He didn’t move. If he was kneeling, too—which he must be, since their knees were touching and that’s how human anatomy worked—his face could only be a foot away, maybe closer. The darkness was so heavy and pervasive that she couldn’t make out his shape, but when she sat still and listened, she thought she could hear his breathing. It sounded rough, slightly accelerated, but that could also be her own.

            “Are you sure?” he said, and his voice was quiet too, barely a murmur.

            Jemma smiled, though he couldn’t possibly have seen it. The pull to touch him—curiosity, she supposed, since he was currently a disembodied voice in the darkness—was overwhelming. After a second, she gave in, lifting her left hand and reaching out to where she thought his shoulder might be.

            She misjudged and brushed his temple instead, her fingers combing through curls for an eyeblink. She snatched her hand back to her lap. “Sorry,” she said. “I just wondered where you were.”

            “It’s—fine.”

            Silence, except for their breathing.

            “If we—”

            “Are you—”

            They both stopped speaking, then laughed.

            “Go ahead,” said Jemma.

            “Oh. Well, if I could only find the phone, we could get some light, and then . . .”

            Ah, yes. As if sensation beyond Fitz’s presence had been walled back and was now overflowing its dam, realization flooded Jemma’s mind. The electricity. Assassin. _Ward._

“He’s coming for me.” She hadn’t thought about it until now, but obviously it was true and even Fitz knew it, that’s why he’d been so disappointed when she didn’t catch on.

            “Sorry?”

            “Ward—he’s coming for me. God, I’m such an idiot, I saw the standings only this morning—he must have worked his way through to me, and he was waiting for me to leave for the supply closet—” She used the door behind her back to prop her way to standing.

            “Um—Jemma—”      

            “Wait a minute. The supply closet!” An idea was taking shape in her mind, as clearly as if someone had turned a light on and the answer was written on the wall in front of her. “Fitz, the answer is right here!”

            She heard him stand up, too, and felt the warmth from him a step away. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying—”

            “Chemiluminescence!” She couldn’t resist grabbing his arm. “Luminol, hydrogen peroxide solution, potassium periodate—Fitz, the supplies are all right here.”

            “In the dark. Where we can’t read the labels, and multiple incorrect combinations could result in our deaths.”

            “I have this place memorized,” Jemma said, and that part was not an exaggeration. She dropped his arm and felt behind her for the door, orienting herself in the tiny room. “And I’m sure I could tell the chemical containers apart from their shelfmates by feel.”

            “Forgive me if that’s not entirely reassuring.”

            “Forgive _me_ if I’d rather do something than crawl around helpless, waiting for Ward to take me out.”

            “It’s not a very big closet. How long could it take?”

            “Since we covered the floor already and found nothing . . .”

            Fitz had no response to that. After a few seconds, he said, “I still prefer the plan that doesn’t involve explosions or poisonous gas.”

            “Well, you must mean mine, since it involves none of those things.” Jemma almost added _if all goes well_ , but she wasn’t sure Fitz could take it. Instead, she grabbed his arm again and said, “Here. Stand out of the way, behind me.”

            He mumbled a few more weak protests as Jemma worked, but she ignored him. After a while, he offered to get an Erlenmeyer Flask down from one of the shelves, and Jemma recognized this as his admission of defeat. He was silent until it was time to create the solution.

            “Now, the glow will only last about a minute before it starts to fade,” she said. “Be prepared to look for your phone as soon as you see the light.”

            “If we’re alive by then,” he said. Jemma laughed at the joke. At least, she hoped it was a joke.

            First the hydrogen peroxide solution, then the luminol. Jemma’s hands shook as she opened up the potassium periodate and prepared to drop it in. She took a deep breath.

            She _knew_ she was right. This would work. It had to.

            She dropped in the catalyst. Sure enough, the solution began to glow, emitting a dim blue light that grew brighter as the chemical reaction continued. “The phone,” she said, but she couldn’t resist sneaking a grin in Fitz’s direction. She caught him smiling back, something like admiration in his gaze. Her stomach dropped.

            His phone had fallen onto a shelf before the power cut, which meant it was jammed between two boxes of microscope slides and would have taken ages to find in the dark. “Got it!” Fitz called in triumph as the last of the luminescent light began to fade.

            A few minutes later, the flask was stashed safely in a corner, they’d pulled two large boxes to the center of the room, and they were seated side-by-side, heads bent over the glowing phone screen. Jemma watched as Fitz pulled up the program he’d created to track Ward, her body thrumming with the excitement of her experiment’s success.

            Yes, that’s what was making her pulse race, she thought. Adrenaline, pure and simple.

            Her thrill faded, though, when she glanced from the phone to Fitz’s face. “What is it?”

            He tilted the phone toward her. “He’s headed up here.” He squinted at the tracker. Jemma recognized the floor plan of Escher Laboratories, third level—where they now sat. A black dot was climbing the staircase from the floor below.

            “But how does he know I’m here?” she whispered.

            “But how is he planning to get in?” Fitz asked at the same moment. He flicked his head sideways at her and then away, but not before she caught the thoughtful look in his eyes. Their knees were touching again. There would hardly have been room enough to avoid it. Fitz’s elbow brushed Jemma’s arm every time he moved, too, which wasn’t helping her concentration.

            Fitz had returned to studying the floor plan, his eyes narrowed. Ward was creeping up the staircase one step at a time.

            “He’s not headed straight here,” Jemma realized, watching as the black dot reached the stair landing and hesitated outside a lab door. “He doesn’t know exactly where we are.”

            “Is he checking the whole building?” Fitz asked, then, “Hang on. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” He tapped away from the tracking program and pulled up something else, a control panel of some kind. A few more taps and a live video feed started up on the control panel, showing—Jemma craned her neck to see better, her hair brushing Fitz’s shoulder.

            She was seeing a bird’s eye view of the lab hallway, she realized, as if the video feed were in the hall lights—which, she thought, perhaps it was. But then the camera moved, a bobble-and-wobble that indicated . . . “Is that a drone?”

            Fitz nodded. It was hard to tell in the dim light from his phone screen, but a blush may have appeared on his cheeks. “One of my own design. I attached to the ceiling when I—” He stopped abruptly and the flush got worse.

            “Yes?”

            He opened his mouth, about to speak, but something Ward was doing on the feed caught his eye. “Of course,” he said, understanding suffusing his features.

            Jemma eyes fell to the feed again, but all she saw was Ward holding some kind of black box up to a reader. The lab doors in front of him slid open, and she gasped. “What is that thing?”

            “Handheld power generator,” Fitz said, already leaping from his box and hurrying over to the closet door. He switched on his phone’s flashlight and threw the phone on the ground so it illuminated most of the door. As Jemma watched, he began running his hands over the cracks between the closet door and the readers. “Basically a really powerful battery.”

            “So he’s feeding power to one door at a time,” Jemma realized, itching to flip the phone over and check the video again. Ward would see that each lab was empty as he moved down the hallway—down to them. “But how is he getting the doors open? The security—”

            “He’s probably programmed it with someone else’s identity,” Fitz guessed, continuing to poke at the crack between the door and the reader. “Anyone from Science would do the trick.”

            Daisy had mentioned that it was only a matter of time before some other Commie figured out her secret. Well, clearly Ward had figured it out, too. Perhaps he’d known from the beginning. It would explain how he’d found all his targets before they could blink.

            “But what about the biometrics?” Jemma asked. The closet had a palm reader.

            “I’m pretty sure he’ll bypass it when he feeds power to the other one,” said Fitz. “Could you hand me a dropper?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “A dropper. You’re sitting on them.”

            “Oh.” Jemma leapt up and dug in her box, eventually pulling out a single glass-and-rubber dropper and offering it into his hands. “So, you don’t seem concerned,” she said as Fitz thanked her and turned back to the door.

            “I have an idea,” he said. “But all I can do is stall for time. So keep thinking.”

            “Okay,” said Jemma slowly. “What’s your idea?”

            He pressed something into the seal of the door—the rubber tip of the dropper. It stayed in place, jammed into the crack, but barely, and it seemed to be slipping. “You’ll see,” he said.

            Just then, the power in the card reader blipped on. Jemma saw the distinct flash of a red light before it flipped to green—and her stomach flipped with it.

            The door unsealed and started to open, taking the rubber blob with it as it slid into its crevice, giving it slightly more width and friction than it should otherwise have. As it opened, it revealed the tip of a black boot—an ankle—dark tactical pants.

            Before the gap could widen enough to reveal Ward’s face, the door slid to a screeching stop.

            “So that was my idea,” said Fitz, holding an arm across her as he backed away from the door. “Got anything yet?”

            Before Jemma could respond, Ward’s face popped into view on the other side of the stuck door, his chiseled features actually—amused?—even though there was no way he was fitting through the gap.

            “Aww. Am I interrupting something?”

            Jemma shivered. She couldn’t help it. She knew the man was only here for a piece of wood as part of campus game, but all the same, his voice gave her chills.

            “Nothing to see here, Ward,” Fitz said, his voice trembling a little. “Operations is that way.” He waved toward the end of the hall.

            Ward laughed, then immediately sobered, the drastic change as unsettling as his voice. “Just hand over the clothespin, and I’ll leave,” he said. “I can wait.”

            Jemma glanced from Ward to Fitz and back again. Was he talking to Fitz, or to her? Though a bit of natural light crept through the gap in the door, the closet was still dark, and it was difficult to tell. But Fitz, at least, thought faster than she did, because he leapt at the chance to stall for time.

            “Impressive little gadget you’ve got there,” he said, waving with his free hand at Ward’s handheld generator. “Did you make it yourself?”

            “You nerds aren’t the only ones who can build things,” said Ward, flashing that creepy smile.

            “True,” Fitz replied. “Even a Neanderthal can turn a stick into a weapon.”

            Ward laughed. Jemma glanced at Fitz again. His face was brave and determined in the light from his phone. She felt a rush of gladness, _pride,_ and then it hit her. His _phone_.

            Ward said something cutting in response to Fitz. Jemma tuned him out, inching her foot forward to where the phone lay on the floor. Fitz noticed her moving—she saw his eyes slide to the right, just for a second—but he kept his head facing Ward, covering for her.

 _There_. Her foot hit the phone, dragging it closer. The light moved, too, and she cursed herself for not realizing that would give her away. But Ward didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he was completely ignoring her, his concentration on tormenting Fitz instead.

            An opportunity she wasn’t about to waste.

            She ducked to the floor and flipped the phone around. Fortunately, the drone’s live feed was still onscreen, and beneath it, the drone controls. In the video, she could see the back of Ward’s head from above, and beyond him, the cracked-open closet door. She scanned the drone controls, finding the arrows for height and movement, and began directing it downward. Slowly, slowly. Ward’s head got closer, and she feinted the drone to the side just in time. She glanced up at the door, but he was still absorbed in his conversation, oblivious to the movement over his shoulder. She dropped the drone still further, to the level of his heels, and then she crept it delicately around his left boot.

            She squinted at the live feed. Nothing. She checked every lace, every eyelet of his boots, but no clothespin stood out. Perhaps he’d moved it after his fight with Daisy. Despair twisted Jemma’s gut, but then—sure enough, camouflaged in black at the bottom of his laces—

            She urged the drone around his back, to his right boot. He’d moved the clothespin, but not by much. One more press of a button on Fitz’s phone and the drone surged to the clothespin, knocking it clear off the boot and through the closet door, where it skittered to a halt at Jemma’s feet.

            She stood up, leaning on Fitz momentarily for support. He was staring at the floor, stunned, but it was Ward’s face that showed the true surprise. His eyes went wide, staring a hole in the floor. A vein leapt out and began pulsing at his temple.

            He was the first to speak, but his voice came out as more of growl than a sound. “What. The hell. Was that?”

            Jemma lifted her head in the air. She reached down, pocketed the clothespin, straightened. “That was me,” she said. “Killing you.”

* * *

            Even after Ward had gone—tossing down his target on its yellow slip of paper like a grenade—and the power had come back on, Fitz stood beside Jemma in the closet, his expression stunned.

            “That was brilliant,” he said for the fifth time. “You were brilliant.”

            “I couldn’t have done it if not for you,” she said, also for the fifth time. “In fact, I shouldn’t take any credit for the kill. It’s yours.” She waved at the yellow paper, even though she knew perfectly well it would say her name and the game would be over, he could take her clothespin right there. She hardly cared. She felt as if she’d already won.

            Fitz’s look of surprise wavered at last, warring briefly with something like—regret? That couldn’t be right. “No,” he said in a quiet voice. His lips lifted at one corner. “I insist.” He bent down and retrieved the paper, holding it out to her between thin fingers.

            Their hands touched as she took it from him, and Jemma almost didn’t want to let go. “Listen, Fitz,” she began, clutching the paper in her suddenly sweaty palm. How should she phrase this?

_I know you don’t like me, but . . ._

_I know you’re my arch nemesis, but . . ._

_. . . clearly we work pretty well together and we should never be apart again?_

            Jemma hesitated. Whatever she said, it shouldn’t be that. He’d suspect she’d gone mad. “Fitz,” she tried again, “I was just thinking that—”

            “You were brilliant, Jemma,” he said, cutting her off. “And you deserve it. Seriously.”

            “Thank you, but—”

            “I think I should go.”

            Jemma’s mouth hung open. Fitz was turning sideways and squeezing through the gap before she could move. “But—Fitz, wait!”

            He paused, holding his phone in one hand and the drone in the other. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jemma,” he said.

            I’ll see you tomorrow? _I’ll see you tomorrow?_ He was disappearing around a corner by the time Jemma had squeezed her way into the hallway, and when she reached the corner, he was gone.

            What just happened? She retraced their conversation as she wandered back to 3A to pick up her books. Compliments on a job well done—check. The yellow paper—check. And then, just like that, after everything—see you tomorrow? And what did he even mean, “see you tomorrow,” with that forlorn turn to his smile?

            A realization was creeping at the back of her mind, like a wave inching its way down the shore only to build and crash again. Ward speaking into the closet, his gaze impossible to interpret. The wave gathered strength as tiny details reappeared in Jemma’s memory. Fitz’s surprise when he drew his target. His name on the Kill list, stuck at zero. Fighting against a sense of dread, she glanced down at her hands and began to unfold the paper clutched to her palm.

            Sure enough, in a familiar, messy scrawl, it read _Leo Fitz._

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUN (AGAIN)!! 
> 
> Look out for Part 3 tomorrow! Thanks for your patience with me and hope you enjoyed. :)


	3. Part 3: Thursday - Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Part 3 is here! 
> 
> First off, my apologies (again) for taking longer than I said I would to get this posted. Geesh, writing can be slow sometimes! Secondly, thank you all for reading/reviewing/kudos-ing. Each and every notification is special. I'm really grateful for your time and attention!
> 
> Finally... yes, I am truly The Girl Who Cried Fitzsimmons. There is still one final part to be written. Oops. But it'll be up tomorrow (for real this time!) since it is only a few scenes long. Then you, Jemma, and Fitz will finally have closure . . . ;)

* * *

 

**Thursday**

            By the time Jemma emerged from the lab building, dusk stretched over the campus, spurred forward by ominous clouds. A rising wind tossed tree branches, sharp with the tang of lightning. She hardly noticed.

            “Jemma!” Daisy’s voice made her jump. “Dude, are you okay? I was one step away from breaking . . . in . . .” She trailed off at the sight of Jemma’s face.

            “I’m fine.” She ducked away from Daisy’s scrutiny and set off into the wind, toward her dorm. “I mean, I may have slightly misjudged . . . but it doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Never better.”

            “Right . . .” Daisy moved in a half-jog to keep up with Jemma’s driving pace. “Okay. You know, saying it more doesn’t make it true.”

            Jemma pushed herself to walk faster. With each step, she felt the yellow slip of paper through her pocket like an acid burn.

            “But it’s okay,” Daisy hurried to add. “You know, to not be—fine—Look, what I’m saying is, maybe we should take it easy tonight. Celebrate.”

            “I can’t,” said Jemma, shaking her head. They rounded a bend in the pavement and the Science dormitory came into view. “I have to plan.”

            “Plan?” Daisy grabbed Jemma by the elbow and pulled her to a stop. “Jemma, you just took out the poster boy for Sociopaths Anonymous. I think you’ve earned the right to relax for three hours.” Her voice dropped, heavy with concern despite her half-grin. “Besides, there are literally 90 people who want to buy you a drink.”

            Jemma hadn’t told anyone about Ward. It’d been easier to block that out for a while as she cleaned up the supply closet and reported the jammed door to maintenance. There was only one way Daisy could know what had happened. Now that she was standing still, Jemma’s bag, her lab coat, the paper in her pocket—they weighed her down like sandbags, and all she wanted to do was sleep. “So . . . you saw the Standings Board.”

            Daisy nodded slowly.

            “And . . . Fitz and I . . .”

            Daisy hesitated, then nodded again.

            Jemma’s shoulders slumped. Part of her had known as soon as she’d unfolded Ward’s target, maybe sooner. She’d pushed away the truth with grim determination for the last few hours, but it could only be avoided for so long.

            Fitz was her target, and she was his.

            But the real problem was how she felt about that.

            Jemma started walking toward her dorm again, this time at a much slower pace. Daisy ambled alongside, glancing over at every other step, her worry plainly written in her frown.

            “He said ‘see you tomorrow,’” said Jemma after a moment. “Why would he say that?”

            Fortunately, Daisy knew Jemma well enough to follow this train of thought. She shrugged. “Maybe he was giving you a grace period? You know, since you protected him from Ward?”

 _It was more like Fitz protecting me_ , Jemma thought, remembering his arm flung across her torso like a shield. She shook her head, as much to clear the memory as in response to Daisy’s suggestion. “No, it didn’t sound like that. It was almost . . . sad. But that makes no sense.”

            “Sad like frightened? Because he knows you’ll go after him?”

            “Of course I’ll go after him.” The passion in Jemma’s voice sent Daisy’s eyebrows shooting to her hairline. “That’s the point of the game. To eliminate my target. Fitz is my target. Ergo, it’s my duty to eliminate him if I want to win.”

            “Whoa. See, I know you’re stressed when you start using words like ‘duty’ and ‘ergo.’” Daisy tugged Jemma to a halt again outside the dormitory doors. “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle. “Listen. I never said you wouldn’t be able to—”

            “I didn’t sleep very well last night,” said Jemma, identity card already in her palm. “I think I should rest.”

            Daisy let her go, startled into silence. “Um—okay—yeah, of course. If you want, I could chill in the—”

            “No.” Jemma stepped back, eyes dropping to her feet. The wind blew her hair across her face. “I mean, thank you, but I’ll be fine on my own.”

            “Okay,” said Daisy again, drawing out the word. Jemma’s quick glance at her face revealed that the concern was back, and stronger this time. “But . . . if you need anything, I’m a text away, all right?”

            Jemma felt a sweep of relief, but she pushed it down, burying it along with everything else that she wasn’t quite ready to feel at that moment. “Thanks,” she said, barely audible over the wind. She turned away and scanned herself inside. Her last glimpse of Daisy showed a tight frown before the dormitory door clicked shut.

* * *

            As it turned out, the yellow slip of paper reading _Leo Fitz_ did not look any different in the fading light from Jemma’s bedroom window. Nor did her favorite pair of flannel pajamas and a warm cup of tea do anything to aid the uncomfortable tightness in her chest.

            She crumpled up the paper and tossed it across the room.

            The situation was truly dire.

            No sooner had she reached her room than she felt guilty for leaving Daisy behind, but what else could she have done? A few minutes longer and Daisy would have pried the truth out of her, the truth that Jemma was trying her best to ignore, which was that she didn’t want to eliminate Leo Fitz as much as she said she did.

            She didn’t want to eliminate him at all.

            She’d thought they were rivals, bitter enemies. She believed he hated her, and that had pushed her to some of her greatest accomplishments in the lab. Hell, she’d only joined this bloody competition because he was doing it, too. The chance to take him out should be the cherry on top of her giant, hard-earned, Shield-internship-flavored sundae.

            A clap of thunder made Jemma flinch. A few droplets of tea spilled over the edge of her mug and plunked to her leg, mirroring the fat, wet drops of rain that had begun to fall outside. She fought off a semi-hysterical laugh at the irony of it all.

Because of course it was only when she was supposed to kill Leo Fitz that she realized she might actually . . . kind of . . . _like_ him.

* * *

            “Hello?”

            “It’s me,” said Jemma, once again standing outside the Communications dormitory. The patter of rain on her umbrella echoed into her phone. “I come bearing gifts.”

            A beat of silence. “Hang on. I’ll be right down.”

            When Daisy appeared a few minutes later, Jemma greeted her with a tentative smile. She held up the box of powdered donut holes in her free hand. “It was all I could find on short notice.”

            Daisy’s face broke into a grin. “Are you kidding? I love those things.” She reached out into the rain and pulled Jemma through the door.

            Minutes later, as they crowded over the donuts on Daisy’s bed, Jemma did her best to apologize, but Daisy cut her off before she could get the words out.

            “Please. After the emotional trauma of your afternoon?” She waved the apology aside with sugarcoated fingers. “Seriously, you were due for a good vent.”

            “That’s no excuse for—”

            “I’m already over it.” Daisy licked her fingers. “ _Ergo_ , you can let the subject drop.”

            Jemma rolled her eyes, but laughed all the same, as Daisy had intended. The silence that followed was a contented one, broken only by the occasional roar of distant thunder, until at last Daisy cleared her throat.

            “So . . . do you have a plan?”

            Jemma pulled her knees to her chest, fiddling with the rain-soaked hem of her jeans. “Not exactly.” She clasped her hands to still them. For some illogical reason, nerves trembled through her. She sucked in a calming breath. “Daisy, can I tell you something stupid?”

            “My honest answer would be no, because you’re a freaking genius, but I’ll make an exception this once.”

            “Ha.” Jemma hugged her knees closer. “It’s just . . . well . . . today was actually the first time I’ve had a real conversation with Fitz. Yes, he was—exasperating—at first, but he’s so . . . intelligent, and . . . caring. And when we were trapped in that closet, I kind of realized that I don’t hate him after all. Quite the opposite, really. I mean, he’s had my name this whole time, right? And yet he never eliminated me. Maybe I’m reading into . . . I’m sure I am. But I don’t . . . That is to say . . .” She was rambling. She glanced up at Daisy, who wore an amused smile. Jemma’s face grew hot as she shook her head at her own words. “See? Stupid.”

            Daisy response was very quiet. “That you _like_ him? Jemma, that’s not stupid at all.”

            Jemma fiddled with her jeans again. “But I have to eliminate him if I want to win.”

            “That’s true,” said Daisy after a brief silence. Jemma’s heart plummeted, and she berated herself for not expecting the answer. After all, Daisy was merely stating the facts. “But what does that matter?

            Jemma glanced up, trying in vain to stop her pulse from picking up. “What do you mean?”

            “I _mean_ , any guy worthy of Dr. Dr _._ Jemma Simmons would like you anyway, internship or not.” The serious spark in Daisy’s eyes contrasted with her smile. “In fact, he’d like you more. He’d like you _because_ you wanted to win, not in spite of that.”

            Jemma blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way. For a second, she felt her nerves receding. Maybe it was really possible that Fitz . . . _expected_ her to defeat him. It would explain his “see you tomorrow” in that resigned, regretful voice.

            But no sooner had this occurred to her than she felt a rush of indignation on his behalf. He was obviously quite brilliant, the only person she’d _ever_ encountered who could challenge her in classroom or laboratory. He’d managed to avoid getting taken out all week long through the genius of his own inventions. There was something particularly exasperating in the fact that, even after all his successes, he believed himself unworthy of beating her.

            If he were in front of her right now, Jemma would do her utmost to convince him otherwise, even at her own expense. Because he _was_ worthy of it. He deserved it. He was the best in their class—in their year—in the entire bloody Academy.

            “I’m going to let you think on that for a while,” said Daisy, jerking Jemma back to the present. Her eyes were narrowed in scrutiny, but when Jemma focused on her, they lightened. “Besides . . . did I hear you say . . . ‘trapped in a closet’?”

* * *

            Daisy was laughing at Jemma’s description of Ward’s “I just got killed” face when her text tone interrupted them. “It’s Trip,” she said, checking it. She frowned. “He says . . . ‘Come to the window.’”

            Jemma raised her eyebrows in an insinuating look. “For it is the east, and Juliet is the sun—”

            Daisy gave her a shove. “Okay, nerd,” she said, but she was wearing her pleased smile again as she crossed the room and threw the window open.

            Trip’s voice reached them through the drizzling rain. “Is Jemma there?”

            Jemma took the spot beside Daisy at the window. Below, Trip, Mack, Bobbi, and Hunter stood beneath a lamppost, suffused in golden light. “I’m here,” she called to them.

            Muttering from Trip: “Okay—1, 2, 3—”

            As one, the group chorused out a rousing rendition of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow”:

            _For she’s a jolly good killer,_

_For she’s a jolly good killer,_

_For she’s a jolly good ki-i-ller—_

_Which nobody can deny!_

            Jemma brought her hands to warming cheeks. The group continued at full volume, Hunter waving a beer-shaped something in the air to the rhythm of the tune.

            _Which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny . . ._

            A few other windows popped open on the floor below. Jemma’s face burned beneath her cold hands, but when the song finished at last, she clapped along with Daisy, unable to suppress her grin.

            To her surprise, clapping and a few cheers came from the open windows below them, too. The group beneath the lamppost performed their bows with varying degrees of gracefulness (Hunter with the least).

            “That was amazing!” Daisy shouted out the window. “You should see Jemma’s face—”

            “Yes, um, thank you!” Jemma interrupted, her voice a bit weaker than she’d planned. “It was very good.”

            “Meet you at the door,” Daisy called, laughing as she dragged the window shut.

            They made their way into the hallway and towards the stairs. As they walked, a few doors cracked open, the other Communications students popping their heads out into the hall. Jemma opened her mouth to apologize for the noise, but one of them said, “Hey, are you Jemma Simmons?”

            “Oh—um—yes—”

            The head disappeared into the room. “Guys! It’s her!”

            Daisy smirked, waiting at the top of the stairs. More doors in the hall opened to reveal other students, all people whom Jemma vaguely recognized but had never known by name.

            “Is it really true?”

            “How’d you do it?”

            “Were you scared?”

            “I heard he has genetic modifications,” said one girl to her friends.

            “No, he trained in isolation for, like, ten years—”    

            “Guys,” said Daisy, but her voice was lost in the storm of new ones that arose in response to this latest gossip. “Guys. Guys!”

            Her shout silenced them.

            “Party downstairs in ten minutes,” she said, and the voices exploded again even louder than before.

            Jemma turned to her, nonplussed. “What are you doing?”

            Daisy grinned. “Come on. It was bound to happen. We’re like the Hufflepuffs of Shield.” She grabbed Jemma by the arm and tugged her down the stairs. “You can sneak out in an hour and they won’t even notice.”

            Jemma opened her mouth to argue, but they’d reached the ground floor, and Daisy was already flinging open the doors to let in the others.

            Trip came first. “Great job, Jemma,” he said, surprising her with a one-armed hug. “My money was on you this whole time.”

            Mack was next, looking distinctly out of place in the narrow hallway. He wasn’t exactly the exuberant type, Jemma thought, but he made “Good one” sound like the highest possible compliment she could receive as he shook her hand.

            Then came Hunter and Bobbi, Hunter unsteady on his feet. Jemma attributed that to the case of beer in one of his hands and the bottle in the other. “Jemma,” he said. “Did you like your song?”

            “Yeah,” said Jemma, watching his beer in case he decided to wave it wildly again. “It was lovely.”

            “I wrote the words. Well, edited them. _Improved_ them.”

            “Oh, um. Thanks.” Jemma forced a smile.

            “Yeah, it’s no problem.” His answering grin turned—well, _sober_ clearly wasn’t the right word. “Seriously, though. Congratulations.” He swayed. “If it wasn’t me, or Bob, or Trip, or Daisy, I really wanted it to be you.”

            Jemma made the mistake of glancing at Bobbi, whose eyeroll threatened her ability to suppress her laugh.

            “Ignore him,” said Bobbi, grinning. “Nice job, Jemma. And also . . .” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Told you.”

* * *

            By the time she left the party a couple of hours later, Jemma’s ears were ringing. Even outside, in the clean, rain-washed quiet of the night, she could hear the murmur of chatter and the rumbling of music through the building’s brick walls. She had a feeling they would last a while.

            Her smile lingered as she began the short walk to her own dormitory. Once the party faded from her hearing, campus was silent and peaceful. In fact, she felt more relaxed at that moment than she had all week. The breeze played across her cheeks, cooling them.

            No more fear. No more jumping at every rustle or footstep. No more Grant Ward.

            Just like that, her serenity evaporated. She hugged herself against a sudden chill. True, she no longer had to worry about Ward sneaking up on her from behind, but her clothespin was still digging into her left wrist, same as before. Leo Fitz’s name remained scrawled on the piece of paper in her pocket.

            She glanced at her watch. It was 11:58 PM.

            She still had one major problem, and only twenty-four hours to solve it.

* * *

 

**Friday**

“Okay, you’re my best friend and you know I love you,” said Daisy when she appeared at Jemma’s table in the dining hall. “But . . .”

            “Just say it.”

            “You look terrible.”

            Daisy set down her tray and began stirring sugars into her coffee concoction. There were only two packets this time, it being after eleven and therefore not an hour that called for desperate measures. “This is why I don’t sleep in,” Jemma said.

            In reality, there had been very little sleeping involved. “Tossing and turning through strange half-dreams” would be a more accurate summary of her morning. And she was still no closer to having a plan.

            In fact, the only thing that had gone to her advantage that morning was the emptiness of the dining hall. Even as it was, every head had turned to face her when she entered, and a few whispers had followed her to the back table. Fortunately, there was no sign of Fitz.

            “—fun last night?”

            Jemma focused on Daisy and managed a smile. “I did, actually. Thank you.”

            Daisy paused in spreading a healthy portion of jam on her croissant to give a modest shrug. “I can’t take all the credit.”

            “True,” said Jemma, glad to seize upon a subject that distracted from her own problems. “Trip made a very willing partner in crime.”

            Daisy pretended to be too busy chewing to respond, but Jemma knew better. She drummed her fingers on the table, waiting, and when Daisy _still_ hadn’t finished, she laughed.

            “Fine,” she said. “I’ll give you a temporary reprieve.” She stood up, waving her empty mug. “But when I get back . . .”

            She left Daisy’s innocent expression behind and walked straight to the station for hot drinks, ignoring the looks that followed her as she passed. She smiled to herself as she selected a tea bag and refilled her hot water, remembering Daisy and Trip at the party. At least one good thing had come out of this bloody game.

            She spun around, tea in hand, and nearly dropped her mug as Fitz walked into the hall.

            The silence that fell around them was so sudden and intense that it left a roaring in Jemma’s ears. Her fingers were burning from her dripping tea, but she hardly noticed. Fitz, too, looked stunned and frozen, his face pale save for two brands of red across his cheeks.

She took a step forward. A collective gasp from the students scattered around the hall penetrated the humming in her ears, but she ignored it. Her eyes never leaving his face, she passed the mug of tea into her left hand and held it away from her side, exposing her wrist to his view. His eyes dropped down to follow the action, and he blinked.

            She waited for his reaction, but none came. She’d expected surprise, distrust, even understanding—but not a flicker of those appeared, even though there was _no way_ he’d missed the sight of her clothespin on her cuff. By the time his eyes dragged back up to meet hers, they were unreadable.

            Then he turned and left the room.

            The hall erupted to life as the door shut behind him. Every single student burst into speech, turned to look at her, stood up from the tables for a clearer view. Jemma watched the space where Fitz had stood, numb with shock, until she felt a hand on her elbow.

            “Jemma?” It was Daisy. “Maybe we should—”

            “Wait.” Beyond her daze, a thought was forming. Not a plan—an emotion. She’d given him the perfect opportunity to end it all, and what had he done? Ignored it? _Walked away?_

Jemma knew it wasn’t logical. It wasn’t rational. But she felt . . . angry.

            And that gave her an idea.

* * *

            “Okay, I’m only going to ask you one more time and then I’ll shut up and get on with it,” Daisy whispered. “Are you sure about this?”

            Jemma, peering around the corner, narrowed her eyes on Fitz’s door. “I’m sure.”

            Though she’d also kept her voice low, there was no need for them to be speaking quietly. The fifth floor hallway of the Science dormitory was empty. Still, when you were about to break in to a person’s bedroom, whispering and hiding seemed like the best way to go.

            “Right,” said Daisy. “Operation Manscaping is a go.”

            “You really need to pick a new favorite word,” Jemma hissed to her back as they crept down the corridor.

            When they reached the third door on the left—Fitz’s bedroom—Daisy set to work. Jemma spared a second from her nervousness to count herself impressed: in under a minute, Daisy had her laptop out of her bag and plugged into Fitz’s reader, all without making a sound. Her fingers flew across the keys as she hacked into the main server, then sought Fitz’s identity information and prepared to send it back to the reader.

            “Ready for this?” she asked, her fingers hovering over “Enter.”

            Before she could nod, something on the screen caught Jemma’s eye: Fitz’s current scan log. She felt the blood drain from her face.

            “What?” Daisy’s gaze dropped to the screen. “Oh.”

            _11:45:41 Erskine Dormitories #1101,_ read his latest scan.

           “Bloody hell,” said Jemma. “He’s here.”

            “Shit,” said Daisy, with feeling. “What kind of Science kid leaves the library after ten minutes?” She glanced up at Jemma. “Should we retreat?”

            They were already so close, one scan away from ending this. Jemma’s wrist itched where the clothespin had rubbed against it all week. “It’ll only take me a second,” she said. “He still has to climb all the way up here.” She glanced down at Daisy. “You could meet him on the stairs and stall.”

            Daisy’s eyebrows lifted, but she only hesitated for a millisecond before her fingers dropped on the “Enter” key, and Fitz’s bedroom door clicked open.

* * *

            When Jemma had slapped together this now regrettable plan, she had not counted on Fitz’s . . . disorganization.

            It had only been a few seconds since Daisy has disappeared to slow Fitz down, but Jemma’s eyes kept flicking to the cracked-opened doorway, her ears straining for every sound from the hall. And still she had not deposited her clothespin as she’d planned, because there was simply nowhere to put it.

            His desk was scattered with gadgets, circuit boards, and half of a drone. Any small, wooden item she added to that chaos would be overlooked—and overlapped—in a second. His pillow was her next thought, but one glance at his rumpled, unmade bed and she tossed that idea aside. It would be yet another ironic twist to the competition if he fell asleep and woke on Saturday to no winner and the impression of a clothespin on his cheek.

            She checked the floor—too many dirty clothes scattered about. The windowsill—crowded with empty mugs and a teetering pile of graph paper. His desk chair, maybe, but it, too, was draped with clothing, and what if he cleared off the clothespin along with everything else before he sat down?

            Jemma paused in circling the room, her heart pounding her ears. Was that a sound from the hallway? Or just her breathing, now even louder than her pulse? Her eyes drifted to the bathroom door, but if this was what his bedroom looked like, she did not much fancy a peek in there.

            It had to be somewhere obvious, she thought, panic making her stumble over a shoe. Somewhere that would jump out to him as soon as he pushed open his door, so that he would know exactly what she had done and be forced to claim victory.

            And serve him right for thinking he didn’t deserve it.

            A footfall sounded beyond the door. Jemma had been too focused on her search to notice the increased chatter of voices on its other side. Belatedly, she heard a shout from Daisy, somewhat muffled—and then the door swung open.

            Jemma pulled her hands behind her back, hiding the clothespin attached to her sleeve. “Fitz,” she said, her voice breaking. “Hi.”

            He was frowning, yes, but he didn’t look particularly surprised to see her. She shouldn’t have sent Daisy ahead to stall. He must’ve known what was going on as soon as Daisy appeared in the stairwell.

            “Hello, Jemma,” he said, his voice wary. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked tired, the circles under his eyes as noticeable as her own had been on her reflection that morning. He crossed the threshold of the room and pushed his door partially closed, exposing the clothespin on his right wrist.

            Hypocritical as she knew she was being, the sight brought a return of her anger from the dining hall. “What are you doing?”

            “I’m sorry?” At last, she’d provoked some surprise.

            “You heard me.” She pointed at his clothespin, its position a mirror to the placement of her own. “Why are you making this so easy? Do you _want_ to lose?”

            “You’re the one who just broke into my room—”

            “Fitz, answer the question.”

            A mix of emotions crossed his face as he stepped toward her, stopping less than a foot away. She looked up into his eyes, daring him to lose his temper, some secret part of her hoping that he would. But he appeared to regain control at the last second, taking a deep, shuddering breath. By the time he spoke, his voice was calm. “I could ask you the same thing.”

            “How so?”

            His eyes trailed down to her left wrist, now hanging at her side. They left a tingling sensation on the path of skin that they followed. “What are you doing in here?” His voice was quiet.

            She crossed her arms, hiding her wrist from his view. “Why join this competition if you planned to give up right at the end?”

            That brought his eyes to hers again, the surprise flickering back, and a bit of his own anger, she was satisfied to see. “I never planned . . .” He stopped, took another deep breath. “Can’t you just get it over with?”

            She shook her head. “Not until you tell me why you don’t want to win.”

            “Of course I want to win,” he burst out. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, but now that his frustration had surfaced, it seemed impossible for him to tamp it back down. “You weren’t supposed to enter the game at all, okay? But something changed your mind, apparently—”

            “I joined because of _you_!”

            He froze, his hand still in his curls. It fell to his side. “What are you talking about?”

            “I saw you walking into the common room that day, and I . . . I . . .” Jemma shrugged, words failing her even in this moment when she was trying to wrench them out of Fitz. “I wanted to . . .”

            “It’s okay,” he said before she could finish her thought. The venom in his voice shocked her. “You don’t have to explain. I know you don’t like me.”

            Jemma was so startled by the dislike that colored his words that she couldn’t immediately respond. It wasn’t until he lifted up his right arm and held it up between them that she realized all that rancor and bitterness was directed toward _himself_.

            All her anger at his inaction fled, her indignation from the night before flooding into its place. She remembered thinking that if only Fitz were in front of her, she would do her best to convince him that he was worthy of this win.

            Now she had her chance.

            She leaned toward him—the slightest of steps, more of a shift in weight than anything, but he looked startled and a bit suspicious. “Oh, Fitz,” she said, pushing his arm back down. She found that once her fingers had brushed his sleeve, they couldn’t let go. “I think you’re the smartest, most interesting person in this place,” she said, watching as his jaw fell slack with surprise and disbelief. “I can’t think of anyone I’d be happier to lose to.”

            As soon as the words escaped her lips, she knew them to be true.

            His lips parted, his astonishment plain in his eyes. Jemma soaked in the sight, feeling a flash of pleasure at provoking such utter incredulity. But an instant later, his face closed, becoming guarded and distrustful. “If you think I don’t know what you’re doing—” he began.

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Tightening her fingers on his arm, she closed the distance between them with a kiss.

            Fitz stiffened, and for one horrible moment, she was afraid he would push her away. But then he melted against the length of her body, his hands skimming up to her face so he could pull her closer, deepening the kiss. She felt something at her back and realized he'd pushed her nearly to the wall. She hadn’t even noticed them moving, too distracted by the wet pressure of his tongue sliding over hers. Fitz’s hands drifted down her neck, her arms, to her sides, until they clung tightly to her hips, tugging her to him with a fierce and desperate tenderness—

            Jemma could have passed away the rest of the competition just like that, kissing Fitz for hours until the clock ran out. She’d never felt anything so charged with emotion and yet utterly _right_. Her insides pulsed with heat while goosebumps pricked her arms, the contrasting sensations making her lightheaded and yearning for more, more, more—

            Yet just as she was adjusting to the benefits of going in without a plan, her mind put forth an idea. Of course. And even as she continued to give herself over to the kiss, dipping her fingers under Fitz’s shirt at his back and provoking a throaty sound of surprise, the thought niggled at her.

            This was her perfect opportunity. Fitz was unsuspecting, totally defenseless. He’d never see her move coming.

            Reaching around behind him as if to pull him closer—which was not even physically possible at that point, but he didn’t seem to mind—she unclipped the clothespin on her left sleeve and, without opening her eyes, slipped it into Fitz’s back pocket.

            “Ahem.”

            Fitz sprang back, stepped on another shoe, and stumbled, but didn’t fall. Jemma raised a hand to her lips as if that alone would hide the fact that they’d just been joined to his.

            “Sorry . . . to interrupt . . .” It was Daisy, pressing Fitz’s door open with one hand, her face genuinely apologetic. Her eyes slid from Fitz, who was bright red, to Jemma, her eyebrows raising almost imperceptibly.

            “That’s fine,” said Jemma, not even remotely able to understand how her voice came out so businesslike and steady. “I was just, um, leaving.”

            Fitz’s head turned sharply in her direction, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to return his gaze. She needed to get out of there, and fast, before . . . “Um, thank you,” she said, moving across the clothes-strewn floor with awkward, choppy motions. “I’ll . . . that is . . . may the best student win.” With that, she was brushing past a startled Daisy, hurrying down the hall at a run.

* * *

            Daisy caught up with her at her bedroom door. “Jemma, I’m really sorry—I never would have—”

            “It’s fine,” said Jemma, pulling her identity card out of her pocket. Her fingers were shaking so much that it slipped between them and fell to the floor.

            Daisy retrieved it and scanned them in, following Jemma into the room. “He ran ahead of me,” she continued, “and when I saw the door partially closed, I don’t know, I panicked—”

            “It’s fine,” Jemma repeated more vehemently, collapsing onto her bed, her knees weak. She twisted her hands in her lap, glancing down to her wrist, which felt strangely bare without her clothespin ornamenting it. “In fact, it’s a good thing you interrupted.”

            “So what happened? I mean, besides the kissing? Or . . . is that what made you change your mind?”

            Jemma tore her eyes away from the red patch of skin at her left cuff. “What do you mean?”

            “About the clothespin. You know, forfeiting.”

            “What are you talking about?” Perhaps Jemma’s senses had not yet recovered from the riotous overload of kissing Fitz. She had _kissed Fitz._ She raised her hands to her lips as if to remind them of his touch.

            But Daisy was frowning at her. Rather than speak, she stepped across to where Jemma sat and reached behind her back. Jemma felt a slight tug at her shirt, just beneath her shoulder blades. Then Daisy’s hand reappeared in her field of vision, this time with a single clothespin held between her fingers.

* * *

 

 


	4. Part 4: Friday - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh, here we are at last! Thank you everyone who patiently handled my constant additions to the length of this fic. And thank you a second time over for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! I hope the ending is as much fun for you to read as your comments were for me. :D
> 
> And once again, this one's for fitzsimmonsy, who deserves all my meager offerings and more. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

 

**Friday**

            Jemma paced the short distance between her desk and her door for what felt like the thousandth time. “Okay. Let me think.” She stopped to face Daisy, who was watching her from the bed. “I’m Fitz, and I just found the clothespin in my back pocket. What do I do?”

            Unexpectedly, Daisy laughed. She sobered a moment later and said, “Sorry. I just . . . nevermind.”

            “What?”

            “No, it’s stupid.”

            “Anything might help.” Jemma didn’t even bother to keep the desperation from her voice. Each time she tried to come up with a plan, her brain coughed up the memory of Fitz’s hands on her hips instead.

            “Okay . . . I just thought . . . ‘is that a clothespin in your pocket, or are you happy to see me’?”

            “Ugh, Daisy—”

            “I told you it was stupid!” She had the grace to look mollified, until she added, “A clothespin would be much too small.”

            Jemma buried her face in her hands. “This is hopeless,” she said through her fingers.

            “Oh, come on, I’m sorry.” Daisy was up and at her side in an instant. “To be honest, I bet Fitz is doing the same thing you are. Stressing out.”           

            Jemma dropped her hands. “You think so?”

            Daisy nodded. “Minus the hilarious jokes, of course.”

            “Hmm,” said Jemma drily. “Why do I feel like he’s getting the better end of the deal?” But Daisy’s suggestion did make her feel a bit better. It wasn’t that she _wanted_ Fitz—or anyone, really—to be experiencing this kind of emotional turmoil. She wouldn’t wish it on—no, she realized, she might wish it on Ward, if not for the fact that she strongly doubted the existence of said emotions in his case. But he was an exception. This pounding heartbeat, the flashes of hot and cold, the waves of adrenaline and endorphins—they were making her feel ill.

            But at least if Fitz felt this way, too, it meant that he cared.

            “I have an idea,” said Daisy, and just in time, for another memory of Fitz’s touch was rising to the surface. “Why don’t we check the official rules?”

            “What?”

            “You know.” Daisy waved toward the bedroom door. “Every dorm has them posted somewhere. There must be something about disputing a kill.”

            “But I’m not sure if I _want_ to dispute my kill.”

            Daisy was already pushing her toward the door. “That’s the point, silly. You have to start somewhere.”

            A few minutes later, they were shoulder to shoulder, blinking at the bulletin board outside the Science common room.

            “First, I just have to say, this is _so_ much neater than ours.”

            Jemma snorted. Daisy had a point. Not a single poster or flier overlapped its neighbors, giving the wall a pristine, clean-cut feel, like a professionally framed collage. In the midst of such order, the thick packet of Assassin rules was easy to spot. Jemma stepped to where it hung in the bottom right-hand corner, dangling from a string on a pin, and began rifling through it.

            _In case of drawing your own name . . . in case of school emergency . . ._ Daisy began to read over her shoulder as she flipped.

            “There!” Daisy pointed, pushing back a page Jemma had been about to skip over. “In case of a disputed kill.”

            Jemma scanned the paragraph beneath the header.

            _In case of a disputed kill, the disagreement shall be reviewed and decided by the Head of the Shield Academy and, if necessary, the Heads of College. Claimant must report the kill and reason for disputation within three hours or before the end of the tournament, whichever comes first. If the dispute is not reported, the claimant’s case will be dismissed._

            There were a few more trivialities about past disputes, but Jemma ignored these, letting the rulebook fall back on its string. She turned to Daisy, who was watching her, wide-eyed.

            “So . . . what are you going to do?”

            Jemma checked her watch: Friday afternoon, shortly after two-thirty. It had already been an hour since her exchange of clothespins (and saliva, supplied her unhelpful brain) with Fitz. She could agonize over her decision in her bedroom for the next two hours, trying to guess what Fitz was going to do, or she could take matters into her own hands, once and for all.

            She brushed her hair out of her eyes and put a hand to her pocket, making sure the clothespin she carried was still there. “I’m going to see Agent Coulson,” she said.

* * *

            Daisy left her at the doors to the Administrative Building, flashing an encouraging thumbs up as she headed off to the library to wait. Jemma tried to return the gesture, but her hands were trembling, so she opted for a wavering smile before heading inside.

            If Jemma were not so nervous, she would have enjoyed this opportunity to visit the campus’s central building. Its architecture blended elements from all three Colleges, with the formidable fortress-like shape of Operations, the classic brick of Communications, and the walls of high windows so prevalent in Science. The resulting structure was an advanced, modern homage to the designs of the past—just like Shield, in a way. Jemma had sometimes daydreamed about being given an office on the second floor, like Dr. Weaver’s, which overlooked the pond and the South Campus Green. But as much as she admired the building’s beauty—and Dr. Weaver’s leadership in the College of Science—Jemma knew she would never be able to give up her time in the lab.

            She’d often suspected that Agent Coulson was guilty of the same feeling—about being in the field, of course, not the laboratory. He made an excellent Head of the Academy, but there were times when he discussed the Avengers or Director Fury with a kind of longing in his voice that she recognized. As she climbed the building’s central staircase to his office, she reminded herself of this private observation, if only because it made him slightly less intimidating.

            All the same, she paused outside his large mahogany door to take a reassuring breath. She smoothed shaking palms on her jeans before lifting a hand to knock.

            Before she could, the door opened to reveal Agent Coulson himself, his usual suit and tie abandoned in favor of the more casual Saturday attire of a button-down and black trousers. Surprise rounded his eyes for a moment when he spotted Jemma, but then he said, “Dr. Simmons. How . . . convenient.” He stepped aside to let her through the door, shutting it at her back. “That should save us some time.”

            A few steps into the room revealed exactly who “us” entailed. Fitz was in one of the armchairs before Coulson’s desk, half-lifting himself out of the chair. Jemma avoided his gaze, her face burning, and caught a glimpse of his fingers tightening on the arms instead. He sat back down as she claimed the empty seat beside him.

            Coulson took his time walking back to his chair, his face both puzzled and perhaps—amused? Once seated, he folded his hands on his desk and stared first at Fitz, then at Jemma. “Dr. Simmons—”

            “Just Simmons is fine, sir.” She shifted in her seat.

            “Simmons,” he amended. Yes, there was definitely a touch of amusement in his eyes now. “Is it safe to assume you’re here for the same reason as Fitz?”

            “Um, I’m here to—that is, well, that depends. Sir.”

            “Uh huh.” Coulson watched her for a minute longer before turning back to Fitz. “Why don’t you repeat what you just told me? So we’re all on the same page.”

            Jemma snuck a look at Fitz from the corner of her vision. His ears had gone a bit red, but from the thin line of his lips and his narrowed brows, he was more annoyed than anything. “I came here to report Simmons as the winner, sir. She eliminated me earlier today from the Assassin tournament.”

            His casual irritation, the way he said “Simmons”—like he hadn’t been pushing her up against his bedroom wall an hour earlier! She leaned forward. “I’m sorry, sir, but Fitz is mistaken,” she said. “ _He_ eliminated _me_ from the competition first.”

            “Uh huh,” said Coulson again, his voice thoughtful this time. His brows drew low in a frown. “So . . . just to get this straight . . . you are each disputing your _own_ victory?”

            “Yes, sir,” said Fitz, at the same moment that Jemma said, “Precisely.”

            Coulson raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair. “Huh,” he said.

            Whatever reaction Jemma had expected, it was not this. He was watching them both in silence now, passing his gaze back and forth for so long that Jemma grew uncomfortable. “Sir?”

            “I don’t suppose you two could—” he waved a hand “—elaborate on how this confusion arose?”

            “Oh, well, you see—”

            “We were . . . talking . . .”

            “—so silly of us, really—”

            “Er . . . Trying to . . .”

            “Okay.” Coulson held up his hands, and they both fell silent, Jemma’s face so hot it could singe her hair. “I’ll take that as a no.” He waited a moment longer, then reached for a pen and a slip of paper. “I’ll need some time to talk this over with the Heads of College. Trust me when I say this has never happened before.” He shook his head with disbelief as he wrote down a few notes.

            Jemma’s curiosity got the better of her, and before she could resist, she was leaning forward the barest inch to see what Coulson was putting down. His eyes flicked up from the page, sending her backward with a look. “You’re dismissed,” he said mildly. He glanced at Fitz. “Both of you.”

            “Yes, sir,” Fitz mumbled as he stood, Jemma one second behind. She watched the back of Fitz’s head as they retreated, too irritated at his distance to puzzle over Coulson’s behavior. Her pride prickling, she waited until the office door was shut, then started powerwalking out of the building, hurrying forward to race down the stairs.

            “Simmons, wait!” Fitz called after her. Though she was already out the building doors, that stopped her in her tracks, and she whirled to face him as he followed her onto the South Green.

            “Oh, it’s _Simmons_ now, is it?” She knew her behavior was nose-diving toward childishness, but she couldn’t stop, even as Fitz drew up to her. “That was quick.”

            “Hang on,” he said, confusion and anger mixing in his voice. “No, hang on, you don’t get to ask the questions—”

            “Excuse me?”

            But he barreled over her indignation, shaking his head. “No, it’s my turn.” The sun caught his eyes, brightening them to the same blue as the sky, and perhaps it was that image as much as the intensity of his voice that took her breath away. “First one. What the _hell?_ ”

            Jemma blinked.

            “You break into my room,” he said, ticking off his fingers as he went, “you—you talk all sorts of rubbish to distract me, and then you don’t even steal my bloody pin?” His voice broke. “I was literally handing it to you! There was no need for you to go and—and—” He gave up and ran his hands through his hair, his eyes agonized. “I told you I’d see you tomorrow,” he said, as if that explained everything.

            “How was I supposed to know what that meant?”

            He dropped his hands from his hair, slack-jawed, leaving messy curls behind. “Isn’t it obvious?”

            “Um . . .” Maybe his meaning wasn’t, but his frustration certainly was. Jemma felt her footing on the moral high ground slipping fast in the face of such genuine emotion. “No?”

            He began to pace in front of her, one hand enunciating his speech while the other perched angrily on his hip. “I went to the labs every weekend . . . to talk with _you_. I spent every afternoon thinking of ways to impress you. I joined this bloody competition because I thought that winning would be enough to make you notice me at last. And then, just my luck, you go and join—”

            “I didn’t know—”

            “—you go and join and I pull _your_ bloody name from the bucket!” He stopped pacing, this time staring off toward the pond, avoiding her gaze. His voice dropped above half in volume when he added, “Now, for some strange reason, you won’t even let me let you win.” He sighed.

            Jemma stepped closer, her fingers itching to touch his shoulder, but she kept her arms at her side. “Fitz . . . I didn’t realize—”

            He shrugged, as if to dislodge the hand she hadn’t even put there. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice laced with self-pity. “You don’t owe me anything for liking you. You _deserve_ to win. All that—that stuff with Ward, I mean, that was all you. I just . . .” Now he let out another breath, shaky, like when she’d kissed him in his room. But when his eyes met hers, they were hopelessly sad. “I just don’t understand why you—you kissed me, when I . . .” He swallowed, his gaze unblinking. “When I was already more than willing to lose.”

            Kissing Fitz was nothing compared to the intimacy of staring into his eyes for several seconds, but Jemma did not flinch. In fact, she stepped closer. His gaze fell to her lips with a kind of fearful longing. “Did it never occur to you that I kissed you simply because I wanted to?”

            His eyes jumped up to hers. “No,” he whispered, so close she could see the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek, and this time, he was the one who bent to _her_.

            His lips were as tender as the brush of velvet on skin. From the way his fingertips hovered beside her cheeks, delicate and uncertain, she could tell he still expected to be pushed away. This restraint tightened her throat as she leaned into him. His tenderness was an unexpected gift in itself, especially when she considered how little expectation he had of her returning it. The thought broke her heart.

            She would take great pleasure in proving him wrong.

            Her hands moved slowly and gently, too, but she lifted them to his side and then to his chest, preparing to curl them around his neck.

            Before she could get further, he tore himself away and stepped back, covering his face with one trembling hand. “Sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean—”

            Wordless, Jemma stepped beside him and tugged his hand clear of his eyes. He blinked at her. She could not suppress a smile. “Fitz,” she said, putting his hand on her waist and holding it there. He stared at it as if it might fall off. Using this distraction to her advantage, she took his other hand and set it on her shoulder. She felt his fingers play with a tendril of her hair, and her smile grew. “I like you. I have done since the first time I saw you, but I didn’t realize it until I read your name on that stupid slip of yellow paper. If you don’t believe me, that’s fine, but . . . I’m warning you now . . .” She slid into his embrace, which she was pleased to feel tightening around her, as if he, too, had lost the ability to stop. “I’m going to keep kissing you until you do.”

* * *

 

**Saturday**

“Wait . . . hold up. I’m confused. Why were you in the closet again?”

            In glancing from Daisy over to Fitz, Jemma caught him staring, the heat of his gaze enough to warm her despite the return of chilly, overcast weather. “Two birds, one stone,” he said, as if it should be obvious.

            “Yeah, Daisy, keep up,” Jemma teased. Fitz grinned at his feet in a fair imitation of Trip’s bashful smile.

            “Hey,” said Daisy from Jemma’s other side. “You guys are going to have to get used to a third wheel that turns a little _slower_ , okay?”

            “This from the girl who broke into my room without batting an eye.”

            It was Daisy’s turn to hide an embarrassed smile.

            They turned off their path toward the training fields, where Daisy was due to meet Agent May for the start of her extra field exercises. It being Saturday morning before nine—the equivalent of a weekday before six—the only other movement on campus came from the leaves tossing on the wind.

            “So, come on, tell me,” Daisy prompted as the fields inched closer. “Why the supply closet in the Student Labs, of all places?”

            “Jemma was working there that day,” Fitz explained, “so I’d be close enough to warn her if Ward took me out.” He shrugged. “Plus, that closet is one of the most secure places on campus, or so I thought. Biometrics reader on the door, plus a biometrics reader on the building. Oh, and—good Wi-Fi.” His lopsided grin almost made Jemma stumble. “I should’ve said three birds.”

            “Huh.” They were almost to the edge of the training grounds. Jemma could see Agent May waiting for Daisy, her black tactical gear as unmistakable as her stance. Someone else stood beside her, more difficult to make out from far away. “Okay, one more thing before my torture session,” Daisy continued. “What did you mean by ‘see you tomorrow’?”

            Fitz shook his head in disbelief, while Jemma could not help but laugh. “I thought it was obvious,” he said.

            “Definitely not obvious.” Jemma turned to Daisy. “Apparently he meant, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow when you inevitably show up to murder me and claim your rightful place as champion.’”

            “Aww,” said Daisy, her smile splitting her face. She nudged Fitz in the shoulder, earning her a look of surprise. “That’s so sweet,” she said.

            “Johnson! Pick it up!”

            Daisy’s smile disappeared. “Gotta go.”

            Jemma and Fitz watched her jog the rest of the way to the fields. “The funny part is, I really can’t tell if she’s joking,” Jemma said.

            Fitz opened his mouth to respond, but another shout from the fields cut him off. “You two!”

            It was Agent May, her scowl now visible as they wandered within its range. When she caught them looking, she flicked her head in invitation.

            “That’s . . . weird . . .” But Jemma trailed off as the second figure turned around to face them.

            It was Coulson.

            She was a little breathless by the time they jogged up to greet him—half from running, half from nerves. It was impossible to tell from Coulson’s expression what news he was about to give. He simply nodded and said. “Fitz. Simmons.”

            “Morning, sir,” Fitz responded for them.

            “I was able to discuss your situation with the Heads of College yesterday evening.” Over his shoulder, one of those Heads—Agent May—was directing Daisy in warm-ups as he spoke. Despite the fact that she had long since resigned herself to losing, Jemma felt her stomach tighten in anticipation of Coulson’s words. “I’m afraid Dr. Weaver was not very willing to bend the rules.”

            Fitz glanced at Jemma, his jaw tight but his expression unsurprised. “Sir?” she asked, her voice breaking on the question.

            Coulson’s voice was as mild as ever. “But she was outvoted in the end, three to one. Agents Gonzalez and May agreed with my decision.”

            Jemma blinked at him. There, unmistakable now—a flash of amusement, just as she’d noticed yesterday in his office. But his lips and his tone were as serious as ever. “What decision was that?” she heard Fitz ask, his voice barely carrying over a sudden gust of wind.

            “I’d like to offer you _both_ internships in the field this summer,” he said. “On one condition.”

            Jemma had to lean on Fitz momentarily to stay upright, for surprise had locked her knees in place. Fortunately, Coulson didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he pretended to ignore it. “What’s that?” she asked, her voice weak.

            Coulson stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m afraid you no longer have the luxury of choosing your destination. And . . . there may not _be_ a destination. Singular.” He eyed them both. “How do you feel about . . . flying?”

 


End file.
